


Roll On

by jaxington



Series: Roll On [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: An Excess of Matzo Ball Soup, Antisemitism, Everyone loves Steve, F/F, Jewish Charaters, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Minor Character Death, Natasha Loves Puns, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 89,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaxington/pseuds/jaxington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1938, there's a bar in Brooklyn called  Sully’s where people are safe to be themselves.  Behind the bar, a girl pours drinks.  She's always got a big smile for Steve and she says queer like it's a good thing.  On a regular basis, she takes his shoulders in her hands and tries to shake sense into him, saying, "When will you do something about that best friend of yours?"</p><p>In 2012, Bucky’s gone, but Steve’s not, and the girl’s hands are too old to shake him.  She does her best to make him see sense anyway.</p><p>Steve had people who loved him before the war, and it turns out a few of them are still around when he finally comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Roll On（中文翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8247947) by [kiwi_plum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwi_plum/pseuds/kiwi_plum)



> This story came about from a need for Steve Rogers to have some people in the 21st century who know/love him combined with a need to write more queer women. Frankly, the whole thing got wildly out of hand.
> 
> Big thanks to [Di](http://queerladydi.tumblr.com/) for correcting all my mistakes and letting me rant at her.
> 
> This is mostly (I hope) historically accurate. If I researched it as thoroughly as I wanted too, I might've been able to get it written by 2021. So mostly I just read Gay New York by George Chauncy and obsessed over [hansbekhart's](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/) [How To Brooklyn Series](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/tagged/how%20to%20brooklyn) which is AMAZING.
> 
> All the Jewish stuff/yiddish comes from my own elderly bubbe, who would have a conniption if she knew that I was quizzing her on growing up in New York in the 30s to write a story with so many lesbians. Seriously, she'd plotz.

Steve would never admit it out loud, but he misses the aliens.  

Turns out Invaders From Space make a fine distraction, and for a few days there, he was busy enough to forget for full minutes at a time that it's the 21st century and he's lost everything that really mattered. 

With aliens swarming down through a glimmering portal, screeching and shooting and riding giant whales that swam gracefully through the air, it was so easy to pretend that he was dreaming.  Or acting out some elaborate science fiction story. 

Aliens seem to fit better in this strange new world than Steve does.  They match the flashy lights in Times Square and all the screens they've managed to cram into Steve's room, even when he requested something simple.

Still, now that the streets around The Tower are quiet again, mangled alien-corpses hauled away by men in biohazard suits, it’s harder to ignore that this is it. _The Future!_   

And it’s really Steve's life now. 

With no aliens to fight, no greater purpose, every little mundane thing convinces him further that this whole bizarre world is, actually, unfortunately, real.  

The beeping in his ear is real.  The phone plugged in on the bedside table is real.  Last night Steve really set the alarm to wake him up, the way that real SHIELD agent taught him to during those first weeks of debriefing.  Steve opens his real eyes to a dark room, light from the real sun blocked out completely by some strange technology of Tony's window.  Tony is the real, living, breathing (sorta grown up but not really) son of Howard.  Howard's really been dead for decades.  

If Steve wanted, he could open his real mouth and talk to Jarvis (who is real, but also not real), asking him to change the window and let the light in.  Instead Steve sits up, gets dressed in the dark, and reminds himself like he reminds himself every morning.  

The year is 2012.  Bucky's been dead 43 days and, also, 67 years.  This is Steve's real life now, not a particularly wacky dream or a fantastical story from one of Bucky's pulps.

Steve was frozen for a long time, and in the three weeks he’s been awake, he’s learned how to use a cellphone, fought some aliens, and cried himself to sleep when he realized 21st century alcohol is no more effective in getting his super solider body sufficiently drunk than the 20th century kind.

Today, he will leave this bedroom and find the coffee already brewed, somehow.  Bruce and Tony are the only ones still here and he never sees either of them in the mornings, but, somehow, the coffee is always just brewed and still hot when Steve gets up at the crack of dawn.

Automated.  That's Tony's favorite word. 

The future is sleek and shinny and _automated_. 

If he wants to be of use today, he'll need to be on the streets and clearing away ruble before the work crews even arrive.  The blocks around The Tower with the worst damage are all closed off, barricaded and watched over by the National Guard to keep civilians out, but by noon some eager reporter will slip through some neglected alley or over some fire escape, ready to accost Steve with a barrage of insensitive questions he does not know how to answer.  

_Was it cold? Did you dream? Have you been to see Peggy Carter? Does she remember you?_

After that, he'll be forced to spend the rest of the day locked in The Tower, either hitting the heavy bag, listening to Pepper and SHIELD PR people walk him through his upcoming interviews, or letting himself give up, for once, for just a few hours.  He'll pull the cushions off the couch, huddle under some blankets in a small little ball, and he'll mourn. 

Steve really would prefer the aliens.

That's not true either.  Yesterday, they dug out a basement in a half collapsed building two blocks from The Tower.  They found a mother and her two kids, crushed.  In death, they were still holding hands. 

Steve really would not prefer aliens.  

Steve would prefer to have died when he was supposed to, when the aliens were confined to fiction. When Bucky’d only been dead for a handful of days instead of decades.

* * *

If the work were less grim, Steve would find it soothing. 

He tried getting on a motorcycle – right after the Asgardians _blasted up to a different space realm –_ to just go and see all those places Bucky never got to see. The ones they talked about when Steve was too sick to even lift his head off a pillow.

He only got two hours out of the city and had to pull over to catch his breath. The crushing, terrifying, heart-stopping panic that filled up his chest and rose up his throat was definitely not soothing, so he turned around and went back to The Tower for lack of other options.

Without Bucky, leaving the city is not soothing and neither is staying in his room in The Tower.

But this work is.

The guys on the work crew nod in greeting when Steve joins them just after sunup to listen to the foreman explain who will be doing what today. Everyone chats a little as the meeting breaks up, moving quickly to get to their assigned tasks. Steve’s going to be working along side a piece of heavy machinery, hauling away chunks of cracked concrete.

He likes these guys almost as much as he likes the work.

They are salt of the earth, blue collar, laborers, and when they talk Steve closes his eyes. The accents ain’t the same, but something about their low murmuring is familiar. It’s easy to pretend to be back in some bar, after another long day spent working hard for not much money. They sound like his Brooklyn. 

That first day Steve showed up and one of them recognized him, there were murmurs in the crew and wary looks.  He won them over by pulling more than his weight and talking quiet, talking humble. 

This is grim work.  They are digging out graves and everyone is accordingly respectful, reverent even. 

Compared to the constant, pop culture infused chatter from Tony, the gruff way these men speak is a great comfort.  

If he could, Steve would grow a beard to hide his face, join a crew like this, and just disappear.  Steve woke to a whole new world and a whole new life, but Captain America's stuck with him and next week he'll be sitting down for his first interview in the 21st century. 

Captain America can't just grow a beard and disappear.

Today, he makes it all the way to the lunch break before the first horde of reporters finds him.  Their questions are familiar now.  

_What do you think of the 21st century, Captain?  What was the war really like?  Was it cold under the ice?  Did you dream?  What about Peggy Carter?  Have you been to see her yet?  Was she a good kisser? Does she remember you?_

_Do you miss the good old days? How about that internet?_

Before he got caught on camera fighting aliens, in full Captain America regalia, the general public thought Steve Rogers died in a plane in the arctic. According to Pepper, the media seems more interested in Steve then the aliens at the moment.  Captain America coming back to life is more believable and less terrifying than aliens, so he understands why people want to use him as a distraction the same way he kinda misses the aliens. 

He does not understand why their questions are so painfully dumb. 

When the trio of reports appears, the guys on the crew stand, annoyed and protective, between Steve and the press.  This has become part of the daily routine, the press eventually finding a way to sneak into the evacuated zone, slowing down the work to badger him and snap a couple photos.

A couple guys on the crew muscle their way forward, giving him a chance to slip away.  He waves at the crew, flashes them a grateful smile, and silently promises to see them tomorrow, to go through the whole rigmarole again. 

Even when these reporters get dragged out of the evacuated zone, now that they've found him, more will come.  It's better to just leave and he knows from experience that sticking around will just slow down the clean up.

He zig zags his way back to The Tower, in no hurry to take part in his three typical activities in The Tower (punching, press prep, or grieving).  The sun warms his face, and that feels nice for awhile, but the city is too quiet, too still. 

It's disorienting, and Steve changes course, heading straight for The Tower.  There are barricades here, too, and a pair of armed guards that check IDs to let people in to the lobby.  All the windows are still blown out, but the glass has been swept away.  The upper levels are bustling with SHIELD personal and other government agencies, using The Tower as a base of operations.

Steve doesn't really need to flash them his new Avengers ID but he likes to pretend that he doesn’t have a famous face.  He pauses on the street corner to dig around in his pocket for his badge and does not let himself have a conversation in his head with Bucky.  It's getting a little peculiar, all these conversations he's been having in his head with Bucky.

Bucky’d have a lot to say about the 21st century, especially the aliens.

The conversation he is not supposed to be having in the privacy of his own head with his dead best friend is interrupted by a commotion at the gate, and Steve stops searching for his badge to watch from half a block away. 

"Ma'am," says the guard.  His name is Harold.  He's got a wife and two kids and joined the marines right out of high school.  He likes to give Steve a hard time about the army and it’s a comfort, that some things don't change.  "I'm sorry, but I can't let you in."

"You can and you will." An old woman stands before him.  Her shoulders are rounded with age, but she stands as tall and proud as she's able, her chin raised high and stubborn.  She lists to the side slightly, leaning heavily on a cane. Although her face is hidden by large, dark sunglasses, he imagines she's glaring.

"Authorized personal only," insists Harold.

"But I know he's staying here," continues the little old lady.  Her stubbornness is familiar, painfully so, as is the way she fists her free hand and rests it on her hip. 

Suddenly, Steve can't breathe, and the urge to rush to her is equally as powerful as the urge to just crumble to the ground in a pathetic, sobbing heap.  He compromises, staying frozen in place and staring.

"I saw it on all the news programs," she says. "Steve Rogers is here and I demand you let me see him."

"Ma'am, you’re not even the first person today trying to get in to see Captain America.  I've heard it all. He meant so much to you during the war, he once went on a date with your sister and would absolutely remember you.  I’m sorry, ma’am, but I really can't let you up."

"What, do I look like I give a rats ass about Captain _fucking_ America?" Harold startles a little, surprised to hear her talk like that.  Steve unfreezes slightly to smile.  "It's _Steve_ I need to see."

"Ma'am—“

"We’re technically still engaged to be married," she says, smirking.  "He left everything to me when we all thought he died, you know.  Should I have brought his last will and testament?  Would that’ve got me in?"

And Steve is moving.  He unfreezes and sprints towards this little old woman, so completely familiar and totally unrecognizable.  Fear and grief kept him from looking her up in the weeks between waking up and the aliens, but that was a bonehead move because she's right here, fierce and looking out for him like always.

"Rachel?" he chokes out, stopping next to Harold at the gate. His voice comes out thick, wet, and he'd really rather not get weepy out here on the street in front of these marines, but this is Rachel.  Rachel Rosenbaum.  The girl who called him queer like it was a good thing and said, _“You are perfect.  You're not wrong.  They're wrong and you’re perfect.”_

It only feels like a couple years since he's seen her, when the USO tour stopped in New York for two short nights before shipping out to Europe.  She stared at him then, frowning over his new body, and she didn't smile once until she finally got to his eyes.   _"Ah,"_ she said, her delicate hands against his jaw.   _"There you are."_

When he asked her to marry him, she rolled her eyes and said, _“I don’t go for fellas the size of houses.”_

For Steve, it’s only been a couple of years.  But for Rachel, it's been a lifetime.

At the sound of her name spoken in Steve’s voice, her shoulders relax slightly. With slow, deliberate movements she pushes her dark glasses up to rest in her hair, and she tilts her face in his direction.

She’s smaller than he remembers, her shoulders hunched.  She's lost a few inches of her height and she's a little rounder in some places, but she's definitely still Rachel, with her bright brown eyes and stubborn chin.  Her hair is still wavy, just steel gray now instead of pitch black. 

Sixty some odd years, but she’s still Rachel.

"See!" she snaps at the guard. She’s fearless.  Always fearless.  "I told you he'd want to see me.  Now you've got Captain America mad at you and you've upset an old lady.  Shame on you, solider."

"Sir?" asks Harold, blinking at Steve.

"Rachel," says Steve.

"There you are," says Rachel.  And then she promptly bursts into tears.

* * *

**1938**

"No fights today, alright?"

Bucky's not looking at him, probably trying to spare himself Steve's wrath.  This is the third time since last night Bucky’s said _no fights_ and that’s three times too many.

Of course Steve’s gonna be irritated and of course Bucky’s gonna pretend not to notice.

 _Steve_ is a grown up. _Steve_ is perfectly capable of not getting in a fight without a lecture from his best friend. _Steve_ hasn’t been fighting in months. _Bucky_ can just shut the hell up.

Instead of looking Steve in the damn eye as he bosses him around, Bucky's digging around in the sofa cushions, pretending that he can't find his keys even though they’re hanging from the nail sticking out of the wall by the door, just like always.  He’s really committed to the act, scratching his head like the location of his keys is a real puzzler and tossing the pillows around. As if this great drama is enough to distract Steve from the fact that Bucky _won’t stop nagging_.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest and glares even harder.  "Come on, Buck. It's been months."

"Doesn't count."

"It counts!” 

“Uh, no.”

“I've had no trouble for months.  It counts."

"You being trapped inside cuz of the cold and being sick ain’t the same as you going out of your way to avoid trouble.  It's spring and people always get restless and reckless in the spring, you included, Steve-o."

Steve huffs and leans back against their closed bedroom door.  A separate bedroom, complete with its own door, is still a novelty.  Leaning back against it, Steve can see through the tiny kitchen all the way to the living room and two big windows that open and everything.

They've been in this tenement for six whole months, their first real place since they left Bucky’s parent’s house after Steve’s mom died. It’s the longest they’ve managed to stay in one spot for years. 

After the depression took another dip in '35, they had to make do with tiny cupboards or packed in rear tenements shared with six other guys. Work wasn't steady and Steve was always sick.  But then Bucky got a clerk job at the Domino Sugar Refinery last summer and Steve somehow convinced the WPA to pay him weekly to draw just last month. 

For now, they can afford these two rooms, and the ability to close a bedroom door.  For now, they can breathe a little easier.

Bucky's even been talking about Steve going back to art class, but Steve doesn't think they can breathe quite easy enough for that.

"I don't even get into that many fights," Steve mutters.  "And I never start it."

"Maybe, but you have a knack for getting beat up at the worst possible times.  Remember when we were trying to get the church to hire us to do some painting?”

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“And you showed up to meet Sister Mary with your face all bloody?”

“ _Yeah_.” 

“We lost a whole week of work.  Remember? _Remember_?"

Steve just clenches his fists and keeps on scowling.  Of course he remembers.  The horror on the sister's face when his busted nose started dripping blood all over the pews will be forever burned into his brain.

"Will you look at that," says Bucky, finally giving up the ruse of searching for his keys.  He makes a big show of surprise when he sees them hanging from that nail where they're always hanging, clutching his heart and acting totally flabbergasted to finally have found them.  “It's a miracle, Steve.  A bona-fide miracle.  My keys just appeared outta nowhere!"

Steve struggles to keep from smiling as Bucky comes closer, jangling his keys in Steve's face and skipping a little.  He laughs, pushing Bucky away and he tries to go back to scowling, an impossible feat when Bucky acts so damn goofy.  

"You're a jerk," Steve says.  It sounds like an endearment instead of an insult.

"Yeah, yeah," says Bucky.  "And you’re just a magnet for trouble, pal.  No fights today, okay?  I mean it.  You know we're seeing my ma and the kids tomorrow.  Don't want your face all bashed up for that."

Steve shrugs.  "Not like she hasn't seen it before."

"We just don’t see her all that often," Bucky says, reaching out to squeeze Steve's shoulder.  His thumb slots into the dip beneath Steve's collarbone.  "You can manage to look presentable every once and awhile, can't yah?"

Steve bites his lip keep quiet.  The words are right there on his tongue.  _You could see her a whole lot more than that, if you wanted, Buck.  You could see your family all the time, even your father. I just won’t come._

"She worries," Bucky continues.

"Oh yeah." Steve rolls his eyes.  " _She's_ the one who worries."

Bucky's face gets soft, his smile fond and his eyes scrunched up around the corners.  He squeezes Steve's shoulder and Steve's breath hitches, not from asthma or a cold, but because Bucky always makes his chest feel so tight when he looks at him like that.  

"Course I worry," whispers Bucky, leaning towards Steve’s good ear.  "I kinda like having you around and in one piece.”

For one foolish little moment, Steve thinks Bucky might kiss him.  Instead, Bucky straightens up, pulls away, and heads out.  

"No fights!" he shouts over his shoulder before slamming the door shut behind him.

Steve sighs and slumps back against the door.  He runs a hand through his hair and breathes deep to calm his racing heart. 

That was a foolish little moment, just one of countless foolish little moments that seem to happen daily.  And these moments are always foolish, because Bucky's not gonna kiss him.  

They don't do that anymore.

* * *

Steve spends the first half of the day drawing at home, and the second half painting the windows of the butcher shop with new specials, promoting low, low, prices. 

Steve never feels quite right, painting cartoon pigs with big grins, not given what's sold here, but Mr. Boyd thinks friendly animals inspire more customers to walk in, so Steve does what he's told.  Mrs. Boyd knew Steve’s ma, and Steve’s been painting cartoon creatures on the window since he was a kid.

The stretch to reach the top corner of the window makes him wince, his back pinching uncomfortably.

When he’s done for the day, Mr. Boyd slips a paper package into Steve's bag, along with the wage he's earned.  "A treat," he says.  "Good beef.  Mrs. Boyd says you're too skinny."

Steve manages to smile at this kindness instead of scowl at the constant commentary on his scrawniness. 

He tells Mr. Boyd to thank Mrs. Boyd for him and steps outside, frowning over the sudden chill. 

The sun’s barely even set, and the wind’s picked up a little, but his day is nearly over. Just a walk to the community art center to pick up his weekly check and drop off his piece. Then it’s home to dinner and Bucky.

It takes longer than he though it would. His boss is a talker and he wants to go over more details of Steve’s next commission than seems necessary. One of the art classes has just let out by the time Steve makes it down the front steps. There are a group of students hanging out on the sidewalk, smoking and chatting. He recognizes a couple of the fellas, but the one dame among them is new. She’s wearing red dress under her coat, her equally red lips wrapped around a cigarette.

When she gives him a little smile, Steve blushes, nods, and then scurries off in the direction of home, hoping Bucky will have the stew all warmed up and ready to eat by the time he gets there.

Moving quickly, he rounds a corner and crashes right into a pair of men, standing around drinking.  Steve doesn't recognize either of them, but Bucky might.  Bucky knows more people their age, goes out more, maintains friendships outside of Steve easier.

One of the guys catches Steve's shoulders as he stumbles, keeping him upright.  The other laughs.

Steve mutters an apology, and tries to duck around the guy, to keep on his way.   

"Watch where you're going," he says, blocking Steve's path and cracking his knuckles.  His words are slurring and Steve's close enough to smell the booze on his breath.  

Steve sighs because Bucky's right.  He _is_ a magnet for trouble.  

"Sorry," he says again, trying to step away.  Again, the guy blocks his path.

"Aw, come on, Gary," says the second drunken fathead.  "Leave um alone."

"I don't like the way he's looking at me," says Gary, really looming over Steve now.  "Don't like how he's looking at me at all."

"Well let me be on my way, and you won't have to be looking at me looking at you at all," Steve snaps. “Trust me, pal, I don’t want to be staring at your ugly mug either, so just move.”

Gary, apparently, likes the way Steve's talking to him even less than he likes the way Steve's looking at him, and he steps closer, giving Steve a shove. 

“You got a smart mouth and a big bag. A little too big for someone your size to carry. Maybe I’ll take it off your hands. A kinda fee for you not watching where you’re going.”

Taking a deep breath, Steve tries to walk away again as he tightens his grip on his bag.  He promised Bucky, after all, and it’s a whole lot easier to walk away when he's the one being harassed.  This guy can say anything he wants to Steve, so long as he doesn't go messing with anyone else.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

“What, is this a robbery all of a sudden?” Steve asks, scowling.

Steve probably should learn how to keep his mouth shut.

“Looks like it.”

Steve’s fists clench at his sides. He really doesn’t need to go home with another black eye, so he tries again to walk away, _again._

When the guy shoves him for a second time, knocks his bag onto the ground, and calls him a fairy, Steve resigns himself to disappointing Bucky.  He'll be seeing Bucky's ma and his siblings tomorrow with a couple bruises, maybe a nice shiner and a busted lip.

Steve strikes first because that’s always a fun surprise, punching the guy just like George Barnes taught him to.  Right in the kisser.  It buys him a few seconds, and he tries to scramble away, but Gary recovers quick.  He snags the back of Steve's jacket and spins him around, punching Steve right in the nose. 

Something crunches.  Blood spurts hot.  Steve will probably be seeing Winnie Barnes with _more_ than just a few bruises tomorrow. 

Steve does his best, kicking and shoving, even as Gary forces him back into a wall, more interested in beating Steve up than robbing him, apparently.  His head snaps back against the brick, which is not the worst thing that could happen because it makes his ears ring.  With his ears ringing, its easier to ignore all the filth coming out of Gary's mouth. 

The first time some bully called him a queer he was seven and his ma turned red when he asked her what it meant.  Steve's small and delicate and frail.  He's been called queer hundreds of times since then, but he's never gotten used to the dip his stomach takes when he hears the accusation and knows its true.

Gary backs off suddenly and Steve blinks, his head swimming.  At some point, while he was busy getting the stuffing kicked outta him, a lady showed up.  She's standing on the sidewalk with her fisted hands on her hips, scowling at Gary. 

It takes Steve a second, what with his head spinning and his back aching, to recognize her. She's tall, her figure gently curved and her legs endless.  Her face is utterly gorgeous, big dark eyes and painted red lips, but it’s the dress he finds familiar, deep red and just a touch too fancy to be hanging out in this neighborhood a couple blocks from the art center.

Less than ten minutes ago she smiled at him as he passed and now she’s standing at the mouth of the alley, absolutely fearless.

"Just what do you think you're doing, you brute?" she demands.

Gary lets him go and Steve stumbles, leaning heavily against the wall at his back and trying to catch his breath.  He's not quite gasping yet, so if this works and Gary leaves him alone he might be able to get outta this without his asthma flaring up.

"You know this little fairy?" asks Gary.  It's obvious that he very much doubts someone who looks like this dame could possibly know or care about the likes of Steve.

Her eyes narrow and she takes a step closer.  "Course I know him!  That's my husband.  My dearest Norman!  The father of my unborn child!" She getting progressively more dramatic, waving her hands around and then cradling her stomach. 

For a moment she reminds him of Bucky this morning when he was pretending to finally find his long lost house keys.  Her hands are flailing, her voice a loud screech, and Steve would laugh if he were only slightly less confused.

"What!" says Gary, recoiling.

“What,” echoes Steve.

"Sorry!" says Gary's friend.  "We’re so sorry, ma'am."  He grabs Gary around the elbow, starts tugging him down the street.  "You'll have to excuse my friend.  He's just drunk."

"Yeah," she replies.  "And a real schmuck."

"Sure," says the friend.  "That too.  We're sorry."

And then they disappear down the street, Gary getting quite the earful from his friend.

"You notice how they only apologized to me and not you?" muses his unlikely savior. “That’s just _rude_ , is what it is.”

Steve swallows blood from his busted lip.  Spitting it out with her looking at him just ain't right.  

"Uh," he replies, still somewhat dazed.  "Are you okay?"  

She just did a lot of screaming about a baby that does not exist.  It seems like an appropriate question.

She throws her head back and laughs.  Steve gets very distracted by the long, pale column of her throat.  Her creamy white skin contrasts nicely with her dark hair, and he'd very much like to sketch her.  

(That, or give her a lecture on valuing her personal safety, not wandering around here alone at night, and avoiding other people’s trouble, but that is a lecture he himself has received a time too many, so he keeps his mouth shut. For once.)

"Your nose is gushing blood," she says, smiling slightly, "and you’re asking me if _I'm_ alright?"

Steve, a little speechless, can only shrug.

"I'm fine," she says, bending to retrieve his bag.  "Nothing like a hysterical woman to scare off creeps like that.  Are you though?"

Steve opens and closes his mouth three times before he can manage a reply.  "Yeah, yeah, I'm okay."

She steps closer.  He has to tilt back his head to meet her gaze, she’s so tall and she gets so close.  He takes his bag from her as she glances over her shoulder, checking to see if they are alone. 

"No," she whispers, shaking her head. "I mean _are_ you though?  Are you what he said you are?"

"Huh?" This night's turned surreal and Steve doesn't even want to sketch her anymore.  He's tired and she's confusing, but there is no way to just leave.  She's standing too close. “Am I what? You’re beloved husband Norman? ‘Fraid not, ma’am.”

"No, no. Not that. Are you the other thing?" she asks again, rolling her eyes some more.  She stares at him hard, eyebrows raised and lips pursed. “What he called you. Are you?”

And he finally gets it.  Steve's face falls and his cheeks burn hot. 

Who asks a question like that?  Sure, he's been called every variation of pervert, had it spit out in his face as an insult, as a condemnation, as a proposition, but no ones ever just _asked_. 

He's tired.  This beautiful dame saved his skin and is now actually asking if he’s fucking queer.  His back aches from stretching awkwardly to paint the window and he's still got a nice lecture to look forward to from Bucky because he went and did the one thing Bucky asked him not to do.  He got punched because he's small and his bag is big and he couldn't keep his mouth shut.  On top of that, Bucky hasn't kissed him in over two years. 

It’s been a bad night. He’s in a foul mood. And he just wants to go _home_.

He does not have the energy or the patience for this strange dame and the insults that are sure to follow her not-so-simple question.  

Squaring his shoulders, Steve looks her right in the eye.  He braces himself for whatever she's got in store for him, but he won’t answer her.   

"You _are_ ," she squeaks out, absolutely delighted.  She lights right up and giggles, clapping her hands twice and then beaming.  This dame is giddy, absolutely delighted, and Steve struggles to keep up. "You are!  Aren't you?”

"Huh?" he says again.  He just stands there staring at her some more, and she stares back, pursing her lips again and tapping her chin like she's thinking something through.  

"You're a tiny thing," she says.  "I bet I could out run you, if I had too.  I could tell you something right now and if you don't react the right way, I could out run you.  Just disappear.  I could tell you something right now with no consequences."

Steve looks around.  Maybe this is all an elaborate rouse, a prank orchestrated by Bucky. It's the only reasonable explanation for her bizarre behavior.  

But Bucky would never let him get punched for a prank.

"Go on," Steve says, giving into his curiosity.  "Tell me."

"I am," she replies.  Steve's eyebrows come together, still not getting it, and when she sees his confusion she rolls her eyes some more.  "I'm what that creep said you are.  Queer."

Steve actually takes a stumbling step away from her and into the wall, blown back by her honesty.  He looks around frantically like those guys are going to pop out from behind a trashcan and start beating on them again.

"But," he attempts.  “I— You— Who just _says_ things like that?  And you can't be!  You're a dame!"

"So?" she says, fisted hands back on her hips.  "You really think its just fellas who go with other fellas?"

"Huh," Steve says, leaning back against the wall.  

"Well?" She pokes him in the chest.  Insistent, but not hard enough to bruise.  "What about you?"

Steve flounders, gaping like a fish.  A whole string of incomprehensible nonsense spills out of his mouth and she just waits patiently, like she understands exactly why he's having such a hard time. 

No one's asked him that before.  And he's certainly never said it out loud, not even to Bucky. 

Eventually, he looks at his shoes, summons his courage, and nods.  

"I mean, I like dames fine, _but…_ " Steve trails off, shrugging. That’s as close as he can get to admitting it.

“Excellent!” She grins, wrapping her fingers around his wrist.  "Come on.  Gotta get you cleaned up."

Steve lets her drag him along for whole block before he comes to his senses and wiggles out of her grip, falling into step beside her instead of trailing slightly behind.  His legs are still wobbly, made boneless by his confession, and his heart is still hammering away, but now that she's slowed down a little he can keep up on his own. 

"What's your name?" he asks.  She knows his utter shame and biggest secret, and he knows hers – although she doesn’t appear the slightest bit ashamed – but they haven't even exchanged names.

"Oh," she says, stopping her forward march.  "I totally forgot that part.  Where are my manners?  I'm Rachel."  She extends her hand.  "And you are?"

"Norman," he replies, completely deadpan.  He shakes her hand.

" _Really_?  I was just guessing and I got your name right?"

Steve smirks and Rachel pulls back her hand, smacking him gently in the shoulder and laughing. 

"It's Steve," he confesses.

"Hi, Steve," she says.  "I'm glad to have met you.  Now come on.  You look a mess."


	2. Chapter 2

Rachel leads him away from The Tower to a bright red SUV, similar to the ones SHIELD’s driven him around in. They walk with their arms linked together, just like they used too, except Steve was much smaller and Rachel didn’t lean on him so heavily. She didn’t move so slow.

When they get to the vehicle, he helps her settle into the back and then gets in next to her, barely glancing at the driver in the front.

21st century driving is nothing like sitting off the flat bed of a Barnes’ truck, feet dangling, and gripping the siding to keep from being jostled right into the street. The ride’s too smooth.

“Beck had this old mustang,” Rachel says as Steve pulls the door shut behind him. “In the sixties. It was a convertible. And a death trap. Had to get the seatbelts installed ourselves, years later. But it was cherry red and she’d drive me around for hours. I _adored_ it. The seats are too low for me to climb into now, but its still in storage, somewhere. A tall, ugly thing like this is easier, with these bad knees of mine. At least it’s red. I’m taking you to see Beck now, alright?”

Steve blinks at her and Rachel pats at her hair, perfect and wavy as usual. It’s an old tell, a nervous habit that’s somehow survived decades.

Steve doesn’t know what to say so he sits silently, but Rachel’s never been one for silence. Instead she chatters about a horse that might be a car, and also, Beck.

Bucky’s little sister, Beck. Rebecca Barnes. The one Rachel can’t stand, who Steve hasn’t looked up yet for the same dumb reasons he was putting off looking up Rachel.

It was better to go on not knowing, then to have confirmation that they were both gone.

“Luis,” Rachel says and Steve turns to look at the driver. He’s just a kid, maybe nineteen or twenty. His face is gaunt, his cheekbones high, and his dark eyes get huge when they fully take in Steve, strapping in his seatbelt in the back seat.

“Holy shit,” says Luis.

“I told you so,” says Rachel.

“Yeah, you sure did. But I still had a hard time believing Captain America was your friend back in the day.”

“Steve,” Rachel corrects, her boney fingers wrapping around Steve’s wrist. Her skin is too thin. Steve moves to hold her hand anyway. “ _Steve_ is my friend. I was never overly fond of Captain America.”

Steve chuckles a little, shaking his head. It’s such a relief, that he’s found one thing in the terrifying landscape of the future that is just the same.

Rachel is just the same, wrinkles and bad knees and all. Her hatred of Captain America, national icon, comic book hero, and symbol of truth, justice, and the America way, practically oozed through every letter she sent him during the war. It’s oozing through her tone now, too.

“Everything else you told me about him true, too?” Luis asks. He pulls out on to barren streets, glancing at Steve in the rear view mirror before looking back out the windshield.

“Oh, hush.” Rachel squeezes his hand. Her grip’s not strong like he remembers. “Steve, this is Luis. He’s gonna be a senior, over at NYU in the fall. Tell him what you’re studying, Luis.”

“Art,” he replies. “And Latin American Studies.”

“Art, Steve!” Rachel says. “ _Art_.”

“Congratulations,” Steve replies, for lack of anything else to say.

In the rearview mirror, Luis blinks. “Uh, thanks, Captain America.”

“I pay Luis to drive me around when he’s got some spare time,” Rachel explains. “Never did like driving much myself and everyone says I’m too old for the subway. Sometimes I listen to them, if Luis is around and my knees are giving me trouble.”

“Rachel, you never listen unless you feel like it,” says Luis.

And that rings so true, so familiar, that Steve lets out a startled little laugh. Rachel chuckles in return, and that somehow makes Steve laugh harder. It builds and builds, like a boulder rolling down a hill gains speed, until he’s so hysterical that he can’t catch a breath.

Somehow he ends up shuddering in Rachel’s lap, her fingers moving through his hair, while some kid named Luis drives them to Brooklyn. He desperately tries to hold back his tears.

* * *

“Beck can’t drive, of course,” Rachel says.

Somewhere over the bridge, Steve pulled himself together enough to sit up and look out the window. They’re back in their neighborhood now, back in Brooklyn Heights only it doesn’t look like the Heights because everything is so _nice_.

The neighborhood suddenly seems like the kinda place where people can get all the way home at night without being cruised or robbed.

Rachel’s back on Beck again. Beck and her old car named after a horse.

Rachel’s rambling reminds him of Mrs. Tilman, the sweet old lady that used to watch Steve after school when his mom was at the hospital, before Bucky came on the scene and he started spending all his afternoons at the Barnes’. She’d tell the same stories about her son, Dear Johnny, who she lost in The War. Sometimes it would be the same Dear Johnny story two or three times in one afternoon, and it was only the strict manners his ma drilled into him that kept him from losing patience.

Steve feels no similar irritation towards Rachel now, even if her rambling does remind him of the long ago departed Mrs. Tilman. In the 21st century, Steve could listen to Rachel say the same ten words for days and still be grateful to hear her voice.

And to hear her talk about Beck with no animosity, it’s like having his cake and eating it, too.

“It’s been years since I had to take away her car keys,” Rachel continues.

Steve looks at her because her aged face is less disorienting than their suddenly swanky neighborhood.

“She wouldn’t speak to me for three days,” Rachel says. “But she forgot why she was mad eventually, cuz she’s always mad about something. Not like we ever had much use for the car, anyhow. We’re real New Yorkers, after all, subway people, Steven. But Beck sure did like to take me out to the country on a nice day. ‘Breath in some non-toxic air for once, why don’t yah,’ she’d say. But I like my toxic air. There is _nature_ in the country. Beck woulda lived in a tent in Prospect Part if I’d of let her.”

It’s one incomprehensible thing after another with this elder version of his dear friend, but his mind gloms on to one detail. Rachel’s talked an awful lot about Beck, given that Steve only has memories of them spitting at each other like a pair of angry cats.

“Beck?” Steve finally manages, albeit weakly. Rachel’s given him all these strange, wonderful details of the person his second favorite Barnes grew up to be, but he still can’t tell if she’s even alive. And he can’t manage to ask. “As in Rebecca Barnes? As in Bucky’s little sister? That’s who you’re talking about?”

Steve chokes a little when he realizes this is the first time he’s said Bucky’s name out loud since 1945, but Rachel hardly seems to notice.

She finally slows down and actually looks at him again. For blocks now she’s filled up all the uncomfortable spaces that seemed to have sprung up between them over the last seventy years with chatter, but now she’s serious. Her focus is absolute, all levity and inanity gone.

“Did anyone tell you anything about Rebecca?” she asks, so quiet that Steve’s stomach drops.  

Beck’s dead. That’s what Rachel’s gonna tell him. To Steve it’s only been forty-seven days since Bucky, and Beck might’ve lived a lifetime but it’s too much too soon for Steve. When Rachel said she was taking him to Beck, maybe she was confused. Maybe they’re on their way to a graveyard.

Steve clears his throat, suddenly so guilty that he hadn’t summoned the courage to just _ask_. SHIELD didn’t think to tell him, but Steve couldn’t ask because he dreaded this very scenario. Not knowing was easier than a reality with Beck gone, so Steve let himself be weak for once, let himself be a coward, and he didn’t ask.

“They told me about the Howlies,” he whispers. “About Peggy.”

Rachel nods. “Peggy’s in DC and Gabe was the last to go, held on until last year. His granddaughter, she still emails me on occasion. Email’s nifty, Steve. It’s where you—“

“They told me about email but not about Beck. Rachel, please. What happened to Beck?”

Rachel cracks a smile. “Oh, so much happened to that Beck Barnes, most of it good, looking back on it. Some of it real sad. She’s at home. You’ll see her in a minute.”

Steve’s whole body shudders. He feels ninety-eight pounds and on the edge of an asthma attack. He leans forward, head hanging down between his knees, taking deep breaths. Rachel rubs circles on his back.

“You living with Beck again?” he asks.

“Again?”

“You said she moved in with you a couple months after I went oversees. Shocked the hell outta me and Buck. We genuinely worried you’d manage to kill each other before we got home.”

But Bucky never made it home. And Steve can’t go home either, not with Bucky lost in the mountains a century ago and the sidewalks in their neighborhood suddenly lined with pretty flowers and assorted topiaries.

 _Topiaries_. In Brooklyn Heights.

“Well,” says Rachel, a smirk playing around the corners of her mouth. There’s mirth in her eyes. It makes her look young again. “We still fight like an old married couple.”

“It wasn’t that kind of fighting, best I can recall.”

“Yeah,” she says, sounding dreamy and fond, like the memories of her snapping at Bucky’s little sister are good ones.

She gotten even stranger in her old age.

“A lot happened to Beck, but most of it good,” Rachel repeats. “She’s been Dr. Beck, for ages. Was a professor, an academic. Wrote a truckload of books on everything from Vietnam to feminism. You should read them! Did they tell you about feminism?”

“No.”

“They told you about email but they didn’t tell you about feminism? Well, did they at least mention Vietnam?”

“Rachel, I was only out of the ice for a few weeks before aliens descended from the heavens. Tell me more about Beck. _Please_.”

“She got married,” Rachel says.

“Yeah?” Steve perks up a little at the thought of Beck’s kids or maybe Beck’s kid’s kids. The next generation of little Barnes, with Bucky’s smile and Beck’s glare. “Any kids?”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly a biological option, but she’s did okay helping out with some real special ones.”

“Oh.” The image a mini Bucky fades. “Alright. What’s her fella like?”

“Beck never in her whole life had a fella,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes.

“But you said she’s married.” Steve’s gonna need a long nap after this thoroughly baffling conversation.

“She is.”

“Rachel, just spit it out will yah? You getting cagey in your old age?”

“Steve,” Rachel says, reaching out for his hand again. “She’s never had a husband because she’s got a wife. And a damn good one at that. Practically a saint, putting up with Beck’s crankiness for all these years.”

Steve blinks at Rachel, but somehow resists the urge to demand that she repeat herself in the vain hope that hearing those words a second time will have them making more sense.

“Huh?” he says.

“Oh, bubbeleh,” Rachel says, patting his hand. She looks sad now. “They told you about email but they didn’t tell you that you can marry whoever you want in the great state of New York? Beck’s has a wife. Me, more specifically.”

His ears are ringing, the sounds of traffic around them fading to nothing. Rachel’s holding his hand, her lips moving, but Steve’s suddenly lost the ability to understand language.

It feels like he’s tumbled out of a fake hospital room and into Time Square all over again, looking around and coming to the realization that the whole world is different.

Rachel Rosenbaum married Rebecca Barnes, and the whole world is different.

Steve’s still silently gaping at Rachel, just as Luis pulls up to a building that looks exactly like Sully’s old bar, brick by red brick.

* * *

 

**1938**

Rachel leads him through a back alley, through a nondescript back door, and into a small storeroom that seems to double as an office.  She drags a stool near the sink and makes him sit.

"I can do that on my own you know," he days when she shrugs out of her coat and comes at him with a washcloth.  "Believe it or not, I've had a bloody nose or two in my time."

“I don’t mind.”

“No, really. I’ll do it,” he insists, because he doesn’t like people babying him like this, even beautiful dames who just say queer like it’s a good thing, out loud and in the open.

Rachel shrugs, handing over a washcloth and a little first aid kit. Steve settles in front of the mirror and winces at the sight of his swollen nose.

"Do you do stuff like that often?" he asks, as Rachel sits on the stool.  "Getting in the middle of fights?"

"Sure don’t," she says.  "That's a first for me.  So was just announcing my queerness to some stranger.  Sully's gonna be so mad at me.  He says I’m reckless, but I had a good feeling about you."

"Who's Sully?"

"My uncle," she replies, as Steve confirms that his nose has stopped bleeding and moves on to study the small gash on his lip.  “He owns this place.”

“And he knows? About you?” Steve demands, whirling around to gape at her some more.

Rachel giggles. “Oh he knows, alright. I live in the apartment upstairs with him."

This place ain't no simple tenement.  The storeroom is packed with shelves and shelves of booze, every conceivable kind.  Through the door, Steve can hear the low rumble of music and the thrum of many voices, all talking at once.  It’s loud and joyous and every few seconds laughter raises up above the din.

"Yeah?" Steve jerks his chin toward the other room.  "And what's out there?"

Rachel grins.  "Take another minute on that lip and I’ll show you."

* * *

"You ever been to a place like this?" Rachel asks after she's got him seated at the end of the bar with a glass of whiskey in front of him and ice for his nose.  She's standing on the other side, leaning against it like she belongs there.  The other two bartenders pay her no mind.

Without the very specific clientele this place serves, the bar really is nothing special. It’s a little beat, a little dark and smoky and dirty. Really, it could be any dumpy bar in Brooklyn, with exposed brick walls crumbling in a few places and semi-sticky floors.

A few pieces of art could really do this place wonders.

Steve shrugs. Rachel might be willing to share everything about herself with people she’s known for twenty seconds, but Steve sure ain’t.

If he was in the business of answering personal question, he’d say yes. He’s been to places like this, a time or two.

It was a lifetime ago, when he was still in art class and some of his peers liked to talk about socialism in Harlem where cruising was easy. Not that Steve did any of that, with Bucky to come home to. But on those rare occasions when he went out after class, it was all on the sly, coded language and stolen glances.

Here, across the bar, a man wraps his arm around another man’s waist, leaning close to whisper in his ear, lips lingering against skin.

"It's still pretty early," Rachel continues, looking at her wristwatch.  "But in a few hours this place will be packed.  It always is, on the weekend, especially when its invite only.  Thursday's are big, too.  Sully doesn't like me here on Saturday nights, but I get to bartend on weekdays. Things get a little wild, I guess. Sully says I'm too young."

"How old are you anyway?" Steve asks.  That's not a question he'd usually ask a lady, but the whiskey and the men holding hands at the other end of the bar have him feeling decidedly off kilter. This whole night is leaving him decidedly off kilter.

"Eighteen," says Rachel.  Steve recognizes it as a lie, the kind he tells all the time when he says, “ _I'm fine, Bucky.  I can do it on my own.  I don't need any extra sleep.  No, I don't think I'm coming down with something nasty.”_

“Eighteen, huh?”

“Urg,” Rachel says, groaning. “Fine. Sixteen. What about you?"

"Nineteen," he says.  "Twenty in a couple months."  

There is a group in the back playing cards.  There are a few people swaying around on the dance floor, but it hardly seems to count as dancing.  It's nothing like the energetic hopping around Bucky's so fond of.  It's more like dancing as an excuse to touch your partner as much as possible.  To lean against them and sway.

Steve looks away and accidentally finds himself staring at the couple directly across the bar from him instead. They’ve moved from hand holding to kissing and Steve blushes harder than he ever has in his life. 

"Pretty little thing like you?" Rachel teases.  "You'd do alright here."

The _things_ that come outta this girl’s mouth. It’s just one shocking sentence after another.

Steve glares, because he's heard that before, once or twice. He’s been offered money to _do alright_ , and when things were really rough there for awhile, he even considered it. Even back then, when Bucky stopped letting Steve climb into bed with him every night and Steve was quietly devastated about it, the thought of coming home to Bucky after doing something like that made him sick to his stomach.

"It's rude to stare," Rachel reminds him.  

Steve blushes some more.  "They're just so..."

"Yeah, it's wonderful right?  When I first started working here I stared a lot, too."

"How long's that been?"

"About a year,” she says. “Sometimes, if there’s a stranger in here who the regulars don’t trust or recognize, the fellas won’t get so obvious.”

“Ain’t I a stranger?” Steve says, bristling. People glance at him and tend to make a lot of assumptions. It rankles, that these fellas would take a look at him, decide he’s a fairy, and just continue on like business as usual.

“Sure,” says Rachel. “But they watched you walk in here with me through the back room, and they trust me not to bring around a narc.”

Somewhat appeased, Steve relaxes back on his stool.

They get to talking after that, Rachel complaining about the drawing class she’s taking, telling him the only reason she’s trying her hand at art is so she can sketch out designs for dresses. “Croquis are the stuff of nightmares,” she informs him solemnly.

She leans close and speculates on just who of her fellow classmates might be queer and makes Steve promise to invite any of them to Sully’s for a drink, if he finds out. “I’m trying to get some younger folks in here. Maybe even some other lesbians, if I can find them. I don’t want to make it like the wild places in Harlem or The Village, but people our age could enjoy somewhere more local and quieter, don’t you think?”

Steve just sorta nods along, drinking steadily and trying not to look like a stunned, uncomfortable dope. There’s a whole different world in here, that Rachel seems to know and talk about so easily, and its making Steve feel like a stunned, uncomfortable dope.

He takes another sip of his drink, frowning when he finds his glass empty.

“Hey, do you want another?" Rachel asks, stopping midsentence when she notices him frowning at an empty glass. She makes a grab for the whiskey bottle but Steve waves her off.

“I gotta get home,” he says, standing. “I’m late enough as it is. And this is not gonna go over well at all.” He gestures at his face, grimacing as he imagines Bucky’s reaction.

Bucky never asks him for anything, and the one time he does, Steve can’t even manage to give it to him.

“Oh?” Rachel leans against the bar, smirking. “You got someone special waiting at home for you?”

Steve’s ears turn pink and he stares down at his shoes. “No. Nothing like that.”

Rachel raises an eyebrow, looks deeply skeptical, but doesn’t push him.

“Well,” he says, running his fingers through his bangs. This moment is somehow more awkward than when she screamed about being pregnant and then just declared herself to be queer, like it’s _normal_. Like it’s okay. “Thanks, again. For getting rid of those guys. And the drink.”

“Sure,” she says. “Yeah. You can thank me properly by coming back, okay? I’m here all day during the week. Seriously, we should be friends. In fact, I’ve decided we’re now great friends.”

“Oh you have, have you?” Steve asks, grinning.

“It’s decided. You’ll come back.”

“Guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

* * *

 

Predictably, Bucky curses up a storm when he sees Steve’s face, but he’s gentle as he cradles Steve’s jaw and studies the bruises forming under his eyes.

“Buck,” Steve says, wrapping his fingers around Bucky’s wrists. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky just mutters something under his breath and winces along with Steve in sympathy as he pokes at Steve’s swollen nose.

“I mean it,” Steve insists. His throat closes up a little and his eyes sting. Bucky never asks him for anything. “Walked right into it and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. This guy was drunk and calling me—“ Steve shuts up before he makes things worse.

Bucky frowns. “Calling you _what_ , Steve?”

“Nothing. It was my fault. I just won’t go tomorrow. You can tell your ma I’m sick or something. Whatever you want.”

Bucky rips his hands away from Steve’s face to cross his arms over his chest and glare.

“First, you get punched right in the nose when I ask you not to and _then_ you want me to send off to see my family _by myself?_ How come you mess up and I’m the one that gets punished for it, huh? _”_

“What?” Steve shrieks. “No! It’s just an option. I’m trying to make amends, here. I really am sorry.”

“That ain’t no option!” Bucky waves his hands around and starts pacing along the length of the apartment.

“Okay.”

“You’re coming.”

“Okay, Buck. Okay.”

“Don’t care if that nose of yours swells up three times the size it is now and you end up looking like an elephant. You’re coming.”

“Fine!” Steve’s not sure why he’s shouting. He takes a deep breath and sits on their couch. “ _I_ actually like your family. _I_ actually want to see them. _You’re_ the one that wanted me looking presentable.”

“My ma worries!”

Steve sighs and lets his head fall against the back of the couch. He closes his eyes and considers just falling asleep right here, just not moving or thinking until Bucky drags him to church in the morning, the pain it would cause his back be damned.

A few minutes later he feels movement on the cushions next to him.   Bucky’s palm is warm on his cheek again, tilting Steve’s face towards him. Steve keeps his eyes closed and hums.

“You clean yourself up?”

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.

“Where?”

“Someone might’ve pulled me out of the alley. Let me wash up in the back room of a bar.”

“Yeah? I know how that goes. That’s one way to start a lifelong friendship. You think this guy’s gonna be your new best friend?”

Steve fully intended on telling Bucky every peculiar detail of his night, about Rachel and how she said queer like it’s a good thing. When he marched home from the bar he even practiced the words in his head.

But Steve’s not like Rachel. He’s a coward. Instead he just says, “Naw, Buck. No one’s got nothing on you.”

* * *

 

Every few months, Bucky gets a letter with a date and a time, and that’s all the communication he has with his mother unless they’re sitting right next to her in a church.  

Winnie Barnes, a force of nature if Steve’s ever seen one, does not take no for an answer and she signs off each letter with the same sentences.

_I request no return response from you, as declining this invitation is not an option, and you will be at the church, punctual and properly dressed, at the above time. Make sure Steve is eating well. Love always, Winifred M. Buchanan - Barnes._

“Why does she always sign it that way?” Bucky mutters, every single time.

That’s more contact then Bucky had with his family before they moved into this apartment and Steve wrote to Winnie, giving her what he hoped would be a more permanent address.

Before they stopped moving from flop to flop all the time, Beck would track them down, badgering her uncles until she found them. Bucky would rant at her about the dangers of a young lady wandering around on her own on information from their criminal uncles, before buying her an egg cream. Occasionally, Beck would bring a note from Winnie, requesting their presence at church, but they’d go half a year sometimes, without seeing a single other Barnes.

Now, it’s church every few months instead of twice a year and inviting Beck in to do her homework or play cards when she shows up on their doorstep at random times.

It’s Steve’s fault, that Bucky only sees his ma and his siblings a handful of times a year (and his father exactly never). When he moved into the Barnes’ house, Steve was grieving. It made him wild, reckless, and Winnie was kind enough to welcome him into her home, but he snuck into Bucky’s bed every night anyway.

He’s not sure what exactly he did or how exactly Bucky’s parents found out, but one day he got home from art class to find Bucky sitting on the front stoop, smoking manically, surrounded by Steve’s meager belongs and a some of his own stuff too. “We gotta go,” he said. “Fuck my father and my ma too, while we’re at it. We’ve gotta go.”

To this day, Steve’s never gotten the full story out of Bucky, not even with the assistance of an entire bottle of whiskey, and that’s exactly how Steve knows it’s his fault.

Because Bucky won’t tell him. And if Bucky won’t tell him, its because Bucky doesn’t want Steve to be blaming himself. It’s because Bucky’s protecting him. And if Steve would be blaming himself, then there is a reason he should be blaming himself, making it is absolutely his fault.

So its just Mass on occasion, and this morning Steve’s gonna be showing up with his face a mess.

As predicted, Steve wakes up with dark purple bruises under his eyes and a swollen nose. He studies his face in the mirror, poking at his nose a little and wincing. Although he's absolutely had worse, it’s never been when Bucky specifically asked him not to go around fighting.

He lingers in the bathroom longer than usual, just to put off Bucky seeing the bruises that bloomed under his eyes in the night.

Bucky gets this look, when he's disappointed, when the world's let him down. It's all wide eyed and earnest. Heartbroken. The very worst thing Steve's ever seen.

In over a decade of friendship, Steve's only seen that look a handful of times – when Mr. Swartz kicked them out his boarding house because Steve was coughing too much, when Bucky lost his sales job because the boss wanted to hire his soon to be son in law, when Bucky whispers with his mother when he thinks Steve’s not paying attention – but it hasn't been directed at Steve since they were eight. Back when they were young and Steve hated how healthy Bucky was, with his ability to keep up with the other kids. Steve resented him so much that he called Bucky names and tried to get him to leave forever.

It didn't work then – thank God – but Bucky's look of disappointment and betrayal haunts him still.

He'd rather spend the rest of his life in this cramped communal bathroom than see that expression on Bucky's face ever again. But living in the bathroom would mean leaving Bucky to see his family alone and that simply will not do.

When he finally makes it back to the bedroom Bucky doesn't appear disappointed or betrayed.   He stops halfway through knotting his tie to sigh at Steve and roll his eyes.

"You look _terrible_ ," Bucky declares.

"Yeah? Well you can't tie a tie to save your life. C'mere." Bucky dutifully sits on the edge of his bed and let's Steve fix his tie.

Truthfully, Bucky's perfectly capable of doing this himself. He does it well enough when he wants to look extra nice on a date. Steve doesn't offer to help on nights that Bucky takes dames dancing. It's a silent protest, one they don't discuss. Just like they don't discuss the real reasons Steve's tying the tie now.

It's an excuse to be close to Bucky and a tiny way to apologize for the bruises under his eyes.

"There," Steve says, pressing his hand flat into Bucky's chest for a moment before moving away to put on his own Sunday best. "You okay?" he asks over his shoulder.

"Sure," says Bucky, answering too quickly.

"We haven't seen them since Christmas," Steve says. They don't usually see the Barnes on holidays, but this year Winnie brought the kids over on Christmas Day. They all spent the afternoon practically on top of each other in their small living room, eating and playing Monopoly.

"Yeah."

"The twins are probably gonna be huge," Steve says. "They seem to triple in size every time we see them."

"Yeah, Beck, too. I don't like them growing up so fast."

"Well, it wouldn't seem so fast, if you saw them a bit more regularly."

Bucky just glares and then hustles him out the door.

* * *

Assumption of The Blessed Virgin always makes him think of his mother.

It's only recently that sitting in these familiar pews has brought him fond memories, rather than breaking his heart all over again.

She always looked so content with the light streaming in through the stained glass windows. Steve’s got sketches of her, from when he was too young to capture the light behind her in pencil but she still looks real happy in them.

He’s still got a few sketches his ma did of him, too, sitting in the same church, only he looks decidedly bored instead of calm and centered.

It's so easy to picture her here. Her face has started to fade in his memory, but he looks at the pews across the aisle and can see her clearly, sitting there in her favorite yellow dress looking as serene as anything.

Church always brought her peace. Steve spent most of his youth trying to find that same feeling, but mostly the church has given him only anger with a nice side of guilt and a dash of self-loathing.

It’s not just the sanctuary that reminds him of Sarah. Being around Winnie is like having a mother again, although she’s never been motherly like Steve’s ma was. She lacks Sarah’s warmth, but she’s always been fiercely protective of her kids, and so steady, so sure, that her every action is the right one, that she knows better than anyone else.

Looking back, Steve’s surprised Winnie didn’t butt heads with his own equally fierce mother, but when Steve was still too little to understand it, the two women settled into a kind of co-mothering situation.

Sarah was milk and cookies, butterfly kisses on scrapped knees, and always there with a ready hug. Winnie taught them how to fill a sock with rocks to swing around when Italian boys got too close to Irish streets, making sure to explain the difference between self defense and just plain acting like a bully.  

“Different kinds of Irish,” Sarah once said, referring to Winnie’s pack of hard drinking, hard living, almost-criminal brothers and the soft, pious grandmother that brought his mother to America when Steve was only a couple months old, the one who died before Steve could make a good memory of her. “And then there’s Bucky’s father. That’s no kind of Irish at all.”

George Barnes doesn’t come to church. When Steve was little he assumed that they wouldn’t even let a Jew through the chapel doors.

“You keeping yourselves fed?” Winnie said just before Mass, studying them with that steady, steely way of hers, her voice still with a hint of brogue. After she was reasonably sure Bucky wasn't lying when he said, “Yes, Ma. Jeez,” she took a look at Steve’s nose and shook her head. Hank asked him if it hurt and Hannah looked very concerned. Beck just laughed.

They’re still the closest thing Steve's got to family, and he selfishly hopes that this is the year that Bucky relents a little and agrees to see them more.

Tucked in between Bucky and Beck, Steve hopes the father drones on forever, because it means a little extra time.

* * *

 

The day is nice, so they walk to the park with a picnic lunch instead of taking the Barnes family car.

Halfway there, Steve becomes aware that Winnie’s been slowing her steps, purposefully letting her four children get farther and farther ahead. Steve’s matched his pace to hers, too busying smiling at the way Hank and Hannah are hanging all over Bucky, laughing their heads off, to notice that he’s alone with Bucky’s mother.

And since they moved out of her house, Steve’s always been a little uncomfortable being alone with Bucky’s mother.

“So, Steve,” Winnie says. Steve braces himself, anticipating her first question as it is always the same first question. “Does Bucky got a sweetheart?”

“No, Winnie.”

“Do you got a sweetheart?”

Steve sighs. “No.”

“How’re things? I mean, how’re things _really_?”

Bucky might be keeping the full story of why they were forced to abruptly flee his parents house from Steve, but Steve keeps things from Bucky, too.

This unholy bargain he struck up with Winifred Barnes five months after they moved out, when they were spending a good chunk of time in breadlines and struggling to find work, is something he’d never tell Bucky.

He was desperate and sick, so exhausted from fighting with Bucky, begging him to just leave, to go back home, and so heartsick over watching Bucky work himself to death to keep Steve in food and medicine. When Steve jumped out of an alley at Winnie as she walked home from work, she actually hugged him for a full ten seconds before pulling away, crossing her arms over her chest, and glaring at him.

“I keep trying to get him to come home, but he just won’t,” Steve said, on the verge of tears.

Winnie raised an eyebrow and offered no sympathy. “That sounds like James.”

“He’s so _stubborn_.”

“Believe it or not, he gets that from his tateh. I’ll give you money. That’s why you’re here, right? You need money?”

Completely miserable, Steve’s bottom lip quivered and he nodded.

So Winnie gave him money and Steve gave her information, a general overview of their lives. She got to hear about her son and Steve got to help keep their heads above water.

“He can’t come home right now,” Winnie said, as Steve was leaving with a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket. “Stop trying to make him.”

And Bucky, so careful about their budget and so knowledgeable about the origin of their every penny, has never asked Steve about the extra twenties. Steve’s certain that Bucky has some idea about where the extra money comes from, just like Steve has some idea of why they got kicked out of the Barnes’ house.

Now, as they stroll towards the park, Bucky and his siblings shrieking with laughter half a block ahead of them, Steve ain’t lying a little bit when he says, “Things’re good, Winnie.”

“Are they?”

“Real good. We’re in the same apartment. Same jobs, even. I’m with the WPA and Bucky’s up for a raise at the refinery. We’re good.”

Steve’s proud as he says it. This answer is nearly the same answer he gave at Christmas, and it feels so stable, so grown up, to have no new jobs or living situations to report since then.

Winnie must agree. She even smiles. “I’m glad. But you’re taking my money anyway.”

“We really don’t need it.”

“Put it under your mattress for a rainy day.”

“Just wouldn’t feel right about it, ma’am.”

Winnie wraps a hand around Steve’s elbow so hard he winces, pulling him to a stop. They’re nearly the same size, Winnie as slight as he is, but she’s always seemed larger than life, her glare the stuff of nightmares.

She only has to stare him down for a few seconds until Steve begrudgingly takes the bill from her hand and stuffs it in his pocket, eager to keep walking before Bucky glances over his shoulder and catches him at it.

* * *

 

"What're you drawing?" Beck plops down on the blanket next to him, offering Steve a raisin. They finished eating their way though Winnie’s picnic basket an hour ago, but she must've been hording a whole handful.

He accepts the treat and lets Rebecca get a good look at his sketchbook. It's just a rough outline of Rachel from last night, leaning against the bar. She's looking out over the blurry crowd, like royalty surveying her domain.

He's never met anyone like Rachel, and he's trying to capture her particular combination of youth and wisdom in her expression. Enthusiastic like someone young, confident like someone old.

He can't get her expression right. He’ll need to go back to the bar to draw her correctly, but Steve’s not quite sure he wants to.

"Who's that?" Rebecca asks. She frowns down at the sketch and then up at Steve.

"This girl I know," Steve says.

"Huh," Beck replies. As predicted, she looks much older than she did at Christmas. She's fifteen now and in the last few months she's grown even taller than Steve, much to his dismay.

She's Steve's second favorite Barnes, and Bucky's first favorite.

One of his first memories is of Bucky brimming with pride when he announced that his Mama was gonna have another baby, that he was gonna be a big brother.

All the other guys used to complain about their kid siblings, but not Bucky. When Beck got old enough to start following them around, Bucky easily incorporated her into their make believe games. For a while there, she was always their damsel in distress and they saved her from all manner of villains, evil pirates to aliens to rouge cowboys.

When she was about five she started insisting on being a hero, too, but by then the twins were crawling and they just started saving them instead.

Beck could be Bucky's twin, if she were a little older and her hair a little less auburn. They've got the same blue eyes, the same cheekbones, and the same smirk, but Beck's always been a little rough around the edges.

She's constantly reading a book and continues to ignore Winnie when she tries to teach her how to cook, how to style her hair and paint her face. While Bucky is always so careful and precise with his appearance, Beck’s a little sloppy.

Church is the only reason she's in a dress now and when Beck says that she just does not care for such things, Steve believes her.

So its not exactly unusual for Beck to be frowning over one thing or another, but Steve's never seen her frown at his art like she's frowning now.

Beck's his second biggest fan, just after her brother, and last time he was in the Barnes house, Beck's walls were covered in everything he's ever drawn her, including the messy portrait he did, right after she was born, in crayon. It looks more like a blob with a tuft of red hair, but Beck's always insisted its her favorite.

"What?" Steve asks, resisting the urge to cover Rachel and hide her from Beck's judgmental gaze. "Is it bad?"

"No," says Beck. "You get better and better every time we see you. But why would you draw some random girl? Usually you draw Bucky."

Steve's ears turn pink. "I draw lots of things."

"Yeah, but look at that." Beck points across the stretch of grass, where Bucky's having a catch with Hank. He'd got his tie loosened, a couple buttons of his shirt undone. The sun's in his hair and his movements are lithe, easy. Like throwing a baseball to his little brother comes as natural as breathing.

Admittedly, it would make a great sketch.

"Here," says Beck, flipping over the Rachel picture and opening a new, fresh page.

"Okay, okay," Steve says, shaking his head and chuckling.

He sketches Bucky and Hank throwing around a baseball. It's perfectly shaded and nearly done by the time Winnie and Hannah wander back to the blanket after their walk around the park. He carefully rips it out of his notebook and hands it over to Beck for her approval as Bucky and Hank finish their catch. Hank immediately drags Hannah up and away to go poke around at the roots of a nearby tree, but Bucky plops down next to Steve, putting more space between him then he does when they’re alone at home.

"Look at this masterpiece," says Beck, handing over the sketch.

Bucky whistles through his teeth and Steve's blushes again.

"Wow," Bucky says. "You're just getting better all the time, you know that? How'd you make it look so sunny when you're only using a grey pencil, huh?"

"He's just that good," says Beck.

"Our Stevie," Bucky agrees. "Master artist."

"Stop," Steve says with a groan. Full on blushing now, he makes a grab for the sketch, but Beck beats him to it. “I am not. It’s just a doodle.”

"Ma, look at what Steve drew up," Beck says, leaning towards Winnie.

"It's very good," she says, but her voice is strained, her expression pinched.

"Thank you," he says.

"I'm giving this to Hank," Beck decides.

"You can keep it if he doesn't want it," Steve says. "Or just throw it away."

Beck wrinkles her nose, letting out an offended little snort. "He'll want it."


	3. Chapter 3

Parked out front of the building that still looks exactly like Sully’s, Steve sits in the backseat with Rachel long after Luis climbs out, murmuring a soft goodbye.

Rachel just holds his hand in her lap, waiting for Steve to get his thoughts in order. He’s got too many questions, all clogging up his throat and keeping him from saying anything at all.

“So what you mean to tell me,” he says, when he’s finally able to speak again. Maybe if he repeats all this one more time he’ll finally understand it. “That you married Beck. You married Bucky’s little sister, because that’s okay now? That’s _legal_?”

He turns in his seat to scowl at her, suddenly convinced she’s pulling his leg with all this.

“Yes,” she says, gentle and indulgent. “Not everywhere, but here. Yes.”

“And this,” he says, gesturing towards the window, “is Sully’s old place. You own Sully’s old place.”

“Yes,” Rachel says. “He left it to me, when he died. But we had to buy that bigger, newer building next to it years ago, when we decided to expand the group home. That’s when we moved into the apartment on the top floor over there.”

“Right, gotta have more space for that group home.” This is the third time he’s made Rachel repeat what she told him when they first pulled up to the curb well over twenty minutes ago.

Maybe if Rachel explains a dozen more times, he’ll actually understand this life she carved out for herself. One that involves _marrying another woman_ and opening something called a _group home,_ this one specifically designed for _queer kids_.

“Sure,” says Rachel, nodding like this is a perfectly normal conversation.

“And what’s a group home exactly?”

“A place for orphans. Or kids whose parents can’t care of them, for whatever reason. It’s a bit more complicated than all that. Ask Olive. She runs the whole thing now. I haven’t been involved in years.”

“But you live here.”

“Yes.”

“And Beck’s up there? Beck’s up there, _right now_?”

“Yes.”

Steve takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and siting up straight. He feels like he’s about to stomp into an alley to confront some bullies. He feels like he’s taking up the shield and preparing to march into battle.

It’s all wrong, because Beck is upstairs and he loves Beck, but thinking about seeing her is terrifying. She lived a whole life, with Rachel but without him, and it’s _terrifying_.

“Here’s the plan,” he says, wincing when he hears the Captain America in his own voice. Beside him, Rachel snorts a little. “We’re gonna get out of this car and we’re gonna go upstairs and we’re gonna see your wife, who just so happens to be Rebecca Barnes. Its gonna be _fine_.”

When he moves towards the door handle, Rachel stops him with an arm on his hand.

“Steve,” she whispers. “She’s sick.”

All the fight drains right outta him. He slumps in his seat, blinking. “Oh,” he says.

* * *

 

There is an elevator in the lobby of the building next to Sully’s, near an empty reception area. No one is sitting there now, but through the glass doors he can see beyond into what appears to be a living room. He spots a couple kids seated at tables, doing homework, before the elevator arrives with a _ding_ that makes him jump. Rachel tugs on his elbow, leading him inside.

She uses a key card and it takes them straight up to the fifth floor. There’re three doors in the hall, one for the stairs, one for the balcony outside, and one for the apartment.

Rachel gestures for him to go through the door and Steve takes a deep breath. He’s wasted enough time dallying in the car downstairs. He’s wasted too much time, with Beck just on the other side of the door and _sick_.

Apparently COPD is a chronic inflammation of the lungs that Beck’s been living with for a decade. She might not be actively about to die right this moment, but Rachel looked so pained when she talked about symptoms and possible complications. “We’re just so old, Steve,” she said. “Any little problem could be the _last_ problem, and Beck, she’s got a lot of problems.”

Now, outside the apartment door, Rachel rubs his back while Steve tries to catch his breath.

“Okay,” he says, and Rachel uses the same keycard to open the apartment door. The space is nothing so ritzy as Tony’s tower, but it’s still bigger and nicer than anything Steve could imagine when he lived in this neighborhood a million years ago.

The room is huge, wide open and sunny. It’s got floor to ceiling windows, hard wood floors in the dining area and plush carpets in the living room area, with a big TV and overlarge, comfortable furniture. Through an arched doorway, Steve can make out an office lined completely with books and another room with a sewing machine.

On the other side of the apartment, Bucky’s little sister sits in a rocking chair by the windows, in a patch of sun. Her head is turned away, but even with all the changes age has wrought, he recognizes her instantly. Although she thinner than she was when Steve knew her, her posture hunched and rounded, her shoulders are still a little broad for a lady. Her hands are laid out on the armrest, long fingers curled slightly and spotted with age, but they are the same hands. Beautiful hands Steve drew a thousand times when he was fifteen and determined to _get them right, dammit_. Her hair is grey, a few shades lighter than Rachel's, but the deep auburn undertones are still there. She's got it cut short on the sides, a little longer on the top, just like her brother used to wear a lifetime ago. A month ago.

Across the room sits Beck Barnes and Steve blood rushes from his head, leaving him dizzy and seeing spots.

"Beck," says Rachel, shuffling across the apartment and leaning heavily on her cane. She glances over her shoulder, and when she gets a look at Steve gaping there in stunned silence, she reaches back towards him, beckoning him closer. He follows her orders and is immediately comforted by Rachel's warm hand resting on his forearm. "Beck!"

Beck doesn't even turn her head, doesn't even startle. For one heart-stopping moment, Steve thinks something might be wrong, like Beck's heart stopped beating while Steve was sitting downstairs in the back of a car, summoning the courage to see her again.

But Rachel is not alarmed. She sighs and starts making slow progress towards her again.

"Rebecca, you deaf old bat," she yells, letting go of Steve's arm to shake Beck's shoulder.

"Who’re you calling old?" snaps Beck, her voice a soft rasp. She finally turns away from the window to gaze up at Rachel. "You look like a reptile. Ancient skin like an alligator."

Steve barks out a laugh and then clenches his jaw to hold back a sob.

"Hush, Beck," Rachel murmurs, running her hand through Beck's hair. "Look who finally came home."

Beck closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before finally turning to look at Steve. "'Bout fucking time," she says, staring right at him.

* * *

 

Steve stays for dinner.

At Rachel's instruction, he gets casserole dish out of the freezer and into the oven. He even sets the table while the girls get settled around it, thankful for something to do with his hands. He can't even look at Beck for more than a few seconds at a time without seeing Bucky and he has no idea how to say, " _Sorry I let your brother die, Rebecca. But thanks for dinner."_

She’s always looked so much like her brother. Bucky woulda aged just like that.

So he sets the table and then puts together a salad in the girls' sunny kitchen. Like their living room, with its comfortable furniture and large screened TV, the modern, sleek chrome appliances seem to clash with homey yellow walls and gingham curtains.

Rachel sits at the table next to Beck, talking about the women who live in the apartment downstairs, the ones who run the home. She talks about people Steve's never heard of like he's actually been around for the last seven decades getting to know them like Rachel knows them. Beck doesn't say anything, but she watches Steve with sharp, narrowed eyes.

The casserole is good, far more flavorful than he was expecting and spicy enough that he has to refill his water glass twice. Rachel frets over Beck, insisting that she eat more, get a little meat on those bones. Then she frets over Steve, insisting he finish the meal off. It makes him smile.

"Wine or whiskey," Rachel says, when the kitchen is clean and they've moved back to the living room.

"I can't get drunk," Steve reminds her.

"Yeah, but that doesn’t change the taste," Beck says.

"Whiskey then," Steve says.

Rachel nods and moves to get up, but Steve stops her with a hand on her arm.

"I'll get it," he says. "You don't need to get up."

Rachel doesn't argue with him like Steve thought she might. So late in the day, Rachel's started wincing as she moves, and Steve remembers feeling like that, like every little breath would make his back throb worse.

Steve, unlike Rachel, was a real bear about letting people help him out. It seems so foolish now, how he used to argue so much with Bucky, doing more than he should until he could barely even move some nights. It took him so long, to figure out that hurting him self like that just ended up hurting Bucky, too.

Beck sighs after her first sip of whiskey and so does Steve. Rachel swirls her wine in her glass and stays silent for once.

"Rebecca," he says. "Rachel told you? About me? About Bucky?"

Over her glass of whiskey, Beck smirks at him. "She didn't have to tell me, Steve-o. I've got eyes. I could see it for myself."

Before, in those long past times that happened a few months ago, the confirmation that he'd been so goddamn obvious about Bucky would've sent him into a panic, but not now. This is a strange new world with pocket-sized computers and state sanctioned marriages between a lady and a lady.

Steve's glad it was obvious. It means he didn't dream it up. He and Bucky, that was real. History might remember it wrong, but it happened. Beck's smirk is proof.

"But Rachel did confirm my suspicions," Beck admits. "Eventually."

"Yeah, well," Steve replies, blushing a little. He rubs the back of his neck and grins. "I'm kinda gone on your brother, it turns out."

Beck breathes in sharp and it takes Steve a second to figure out what's got her looking so horrified all of a sudden. He used the present tense, talked about Bucky like he's still here.

"Jesus Christ," says Beck. "It must've just been yesterday for you."

Steve lets out a startled little laugh, inordinately relieved that someone finally _gets it_. Every other person he's encountered in the 21st century – from director Fury to the SHIELD psychologist to Tony Stark – has assumed that Steve's got 70 years distance from WWII. Like he's done 70 years of grieving. Like he woke up feeling as though he slept for 70 years when it actually seemed like approximately two minutes.

But Rebecca Barnes gets it. She always was the brains of the unit.

"Feels like forty-seven days to me," Steve confesses. And next to Beck, Rachel gasps and covers her mouth. "He fell six days before I took the plane down."

"Six?" whispers Rachel.

"Fell?" hisses Beck.

"You didn't know that?"

"No." Beck shakes her head. There are tears in her eyes, her voice even thinner than it was a minute ago. "No, they didn't tell us how. They didn't tell us anything."

"Oh," says Steve. It’s like his insides are collapsing, his body curling forward until he's leaning down with his head hanging between his knees. "Oh," he says to the ground.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," says Rachel. She reaches out to run her fingers through his hair and it makes him shudder.

"Yes, he goddamn well does," replies Beck.

"Don't push him, Rebecca," Rachel snaps back. "It's only been a _month_ for him!"

"Well its been seventy fucking years for me and I want to know what happened to my brother!"

It's the way Beck's voice breaks when she says _brother_ , that inspires Steve to raise his head and speak. "It was my fault," he whispers. "I didn't— It was my fault."

Rachel covers her mouth with her hand again. Beck raises an eyebrow, looking far more skeptical than he anticipated and a lot less angry with him.

"We were on a train," he explains. Each word feels like he's ripping some vital organ out of his own chest. "In the alps, high up in the mountains, right on the edge of this massive icy ravine. Fighting. It was a Nazi train and there was an explosion near us and somehow we both ended up outside, clinging on to the side of the car, hanging out of this ripped open hole, and Bucky, he— he— he—"

"He fell," Beck finishes for him.

"I _let_ him fall."

Beck rolls her eyes even as she wipes tears from her cheeks. "Bullshit."

"No, Beck. You don't get it. I didn't get to him. I let him fall." It’s frustrating, like walking into confession and having a priest dismiss your sins without even hearing about them first. Steve's not done explaining, but Beck's already shaking her head.

"Did you see my brother hanging off the side of a fucking train and think to yourself, ‘Gee, I'll just _not_ pull him to safety?' Did you make that decision, Steve?"

"No," he says. "Of course not. But I shoulda been able to get to him in time."

He's Captain America, his body a medical marvel, and what's the point of all this strength and speed, if he couldn't even get to Bucky in time? What's the point of anything, now that he's living in the future without him?

"It was a goddamn war," Beck spits out. She's angry now, and Steve shies away from her, leaning back in his chair. "Nothing in a goddamn war makes sense, and it wasn't your fault."

"But—“

"No," says Beck again, waving him off with an angry gesture. "Stop it. I can't take on your unnecessary guilt right now. You just told me that my brother fell to his death from a train, so let me just cry about it for a minute without having to worry about you blaming yourself for it too."

“Rebecca,” Rachel scolds. “It’s been _forty-seven_ days for him. Forty-seven!”

Beck takes a deep breath, and when she reaches out for Steve’s hand he takes it, focusing real hard on not smashing all her fragile bones.

“Bucky’s, gone,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Beck replies.

“I miss him.”

“Me too. Every damn day.”

"Okay," Steve murmurs. And then he just sits there, watching Beck cry silently and Rachel cry loudly. He holds her hand, too, the three of them forming a sad little triangle of grief, and as horrible it is to see his own pain reflected in the aged faces of his old friends, it’s a relief too.

He's not alone in his grief. He's not the only one who misses Bucky.

Steve doesn't cry, but sitting there with Rachel and Beck makes it a little easier to breathe, somehow.

"So," says Rachel, long after the sun's gone down and Beck's tears have dried on her face. "Do you want all your stuff back?"

* * *

 

 

**1938**

"Where the hell is Rebecca?" Bucky mutters, scowling at his wristwatch.

"Dunno, Buck." Steve sighs and fans himself with a newspaper.

It should be fall, but somehow it's still too hot to really be spending any time outside in the sun. He crowds together with Bucky in the little bit of shade from an awning outside the theater.

If he had his way, they'd be splashing in cool ocean waves at Coney Island, but Beck's hatred of the beach is rather notorious. Instead it’s going to be the latest Marx Brothers film. Groucho is one of the only things yet discovered on the planet to get Beck to laugh out loud, so that's something, even if its not as good as swimming.

At least this theater's air conditioned, a little plaque in the ticket office window declaring it, “ _Cooled by Refrigeration”._

"She's still got a few minutes," Steve says when Bucky starts to tap his foot.

"Since when is Beck anything less than ten minutes early to everything? She's gonna miss the news reel, maybe even the cartoon."

Across the street, Beck appears. She waits on the curb, glaring as a truck rumbles passes, and then rushes over to them.

"Well, look who decided to grace us with her presence," Bucky snaps.

Steve rubs Bucky's back, the material damp with sweat, and sighs. The heats getting to them all, but Bucky's always been particularly prickly on days this criminally hot.

"You can blame your mother," Beck snaps right back.

“His mother?” Steve asks. “Not yours, too?”

“Today I want nothing to do with her.”

"Making us wait out here in this weather," Bucky continues. "You want Steve passing out from heat exhaustion again?"

"Hey!" says Steve. "That was one time. And I'm fine. I was fine then and I’m fine now."

"You could've waited inside," Beck says.

"That's not the _point_ ," insists Bucky.

"You can yell at me later, _James_ ," she says, glancing over her shoulder. Across the street, another young woman is waiting to cross to the theater. She's far more timid about it than Beck, hesitating on the curb with a car still a block away. "Look, I'm sorry. Ma made me bring her and she's fine, I guess, but not right for you at _all_ , Buck. Don't you feel obligated to take her out if you don't want to, alright?"

Bucky leans back, cocking his head to the side as he stares down at his sister. "What?" he asks, completely baffled.

"What," Steve repeats, voice flat. It sounds like the heat’s finally getting to him now, too, but he knows its more than that.

"That's Maryanne Donahue." Beck nods at the girl who steps off the sidewalk briefly only to scurry back onto it as a pair of bicycles flies by. "Ma thinks you'll get along like a house on fire."

" _Who_?" asks Bucky.

"She's Irene's favorite cousin."

"Who?" asks Bucky, again.

"Irene Donahue!" Beck says, losing all patience. Steve reaches out to rub her back now because she looks like she needs it. "Irene. You know. The one engaged to Uncle Corman."

"Corman's engaged?"

"Jesus H. Christ, Buck! Don't you know nothing about the family these days? Yes, he's engaged, and Ma wants to set you up with his fiancé’s favorite cousin and she's finally caught up to me, so be nice. Or not. I don't really care about any of this."

Sure enough, Maryanne Donahue, favorite cousin to Uncle Corman's fiancé, has made it across the street. She turns a little pink when she catches sight of Bucky, her gaze skipping right over Steve. Bucky's already wearing that charming smirk that's had many a dame swooning, and Beck rolls her eyes as she rushes through the introductions.

Despite the matchmaking mission given to her by Mama Barnes, Beck makes sure Bucky and Maryanne are seated as far away from each other as possible when they find their seats. Steve ends up between Beck and Bucky, his preferred spot in all things from church to dinner.

Beck laughs, loud and free, at the on screen shenanigans, and after nearly every joke, Bucky glances over at Steve, rolling his eyes. Bucky’s never impressed with the Marx Brothers, which is always funnier to Steve than the jokes.

And it’s enough, that Steve’s the one who Bucky looks at throughout the movie, even if he never grins at Steve the way he grins at gals like Maryanne.

It's enough that Bucky drapes his arm over Steve's shoulder when they walk around the corner to get egg creams after, gleefully recounting his least favorite scenes from the movie in Steve’s good ear, even with Bucky asking to take Maryanne out before they're even finished with their drinks.

* * *

 

Steve only agrees to the double date because its been weeks since he got to spend any sort of time with Bucky. He's taken Maryanne out three weekends in a row – a new record – so when Bucky comes home after work saying, "So Maryanne's got this friend," Steve agrees to the date with only minimal grumbling.

It’s a fine time. Lucy does not grimace when she sees that her date for the evening is a full five inches shorter than her and if she's not genuinely interested in his art then she does a good job faking it. Steve even finds himself enjoying Maryanne's company. She's quietly funny and very sweet.

It's a fine time, but Steve's nothing but relieved when Lucy begs off the dancing after dinner, claiming a headache. Bucky gives him a big hug as they say their goodbyes, laughing and messing up Steve's hair. Steve pinches him in the side in retaliation, pushing Bucky away and scowling as he runs his fingers through his bangs.

"You kids get home safe now," Bucky says as he wraps an arm around Maryanne's waist.

"Don't wait up," Maryanne says, her cheeks turning pink.

Lucy lives in a boarding house ten blocks away. He walks her home, and when they get to the front steps Lucy lingers on the sidewalk instead of rushing up to the front door. Steve puts his hands in his pockets and tries not to look as awkward as he feels.

"I really do have a headache," Lucy says, resting a hand on his shoulder. "I wasn't just saying that."

"I didn't think you were," Steve lies. Of course he thought she was claiming a headache to get out of dancing with him. Hell, he thought about using the same excuse after dinner himself.

She's awfully pretty when she smiles, even if her hair is too light for his liking.

"You can take me out again," she says, "if you want."

That’s another surprise.

"Why?" Steve asks before he can think better of it.

Lucy laughs a little. "Is it so hard to believe that I had a good time tonight?"

Steve attempts a smile and fails. He just shrugs, and Lucy goes from teasing to serious.

"Look, I like guys with real talent," she admits. "The creative types, you know? And you talk to me like I'm am an actual person, not just some _dame_."

Steve nods slowly and cracks a smile.

"Plus," she says, "how am I ever going to get a look at some of this art your friend was raving about if we don't go out again, huh?"

When she leans close to kiss him, it takes him a few seconds to work through his shock and respond. It's not his first kiss with a girl, but it’s a near thing. She squeezes his shoulder again as she moves away, murmuring goodnight as she goes up the stairs.

"Maybe I'll see you?" she asks.

“Sure.” And Steve manages a nod.

As he walks home, Steve finds himself winding along a slightly longer route that takes him directly by Sully’s, the queer bar that looks so innocuous from the front. He hasn't been back in a couple months, not since Rachel patched him up and declared them friends. He hasn't been brave enough, despite thinking constantly about Rachel and the way she says queer, all open and unashamed.

When he gets to the bar, he loiters across the street and hides in the shadows. Rachel claimed to always be at the bar when he met her, and it’s certainly true tonight. She's standing out in front of the door, smoking a cigarette and talking to two middle aged men with their sleeves rolled up over their muscular forearms.

For a few minutes, he just stands across the street, watching them.

In Steve’s experience, choices are very rarely this clear. For the second time in recent memory, he knows absolutely what he _should_ do and, also, absolutely what he _wants_ to do. There are no shades of grey here, just too equally clear paths, the reasonable choice and the one he aches for.

It’s like the options he had right after his ma died; live on his own or accept the Barnes’ offer of help. Then, he knew absolutely that he _should_ tell Bucky no. That he should be a man, toughen up, and figure out how to make it on his own. That he should definitely not put himself in close quarters with Bucky, with the two of them suddenly sharing a room with a lock and everything. And as deeply as he knew what he should do in that moment, he also knew he wanted the exact opposite.

That time, he chose what he wanted over what he should do, but that was mostly because Bucky wanted it as badly as he did.

Now, the choice is equally as clear. He should turn around right now and go home, making sure to find Lucy tomorrow and ask to take her out again. He wants to cross the street so badly he’s itchy with it.

Lucy liked him, for some reason, and maybe they'd have a second date, a third. Maybe she'd say yes when he asked her to marry him. Or maybe she’d take off the first time Steve got sick, but with her he could actually _try_ do what he's supposed to. He could try to hold off on dying before his thirtieth birthday and provide for a wife, have a couple kids. He could use queer like a dirty word instead of a part of who he is.

Or he could cross the street and greet Rachel. Maybe she'd bring him into that bar again, give him a drink, and Steve would have entry into this whole secret world, full of people just like him. He could watch Rachel and maybe learn from her how to do that, to just be himself and be proud of it.

Across the street, Rachel throws back her head and laughs. Steve's feet start moving before his brain has caught up with his decision.

It only takes him ten seconds to get to Sully's. The men standing with Rachel notice him first, nodding in greeting. They look both a little wary of Steve, and a little interested, and Steve freezes, realizing that Rachel might not remember him. Or even worse, that she might be angry it took him so long to find his way back here, months and months. A whole summer.

Instead, Rachel's whole face lights up when she sees him. She squeals, drops her cigarette, and throws her arms around his neck.

"Steve," she says. "There you are!"

"Yeah," he replies, closing his eyes and returning her hug. "Here I am."

* * *

 

Steve meets a lot of people, struggling to hold onto their names in a blur of faces and greetings and shouted, brief conversations over the din. It all gets blurrier, with Rachel making sure his glass is never empty.

Rachel introduces him to Peter, a tall black man with long, spindly limbs who plays trombone in Harlem but comes into Sully’s pretty regularly because his sweetheart lives around the corner.

He meets Tall Michael and Short Michael, a pair of fifty-year-old Irish fellas who’ve been together for thirty some odd years.   Short Michael has a painted face – red lips and rouge. Tall Michael has bad knees, but insists on dancing, anyway, because Short Michael loves it.

He meets Claudette, slender drag queen with a gold dress and soft brown curls. She talks to Rachel about sewing. Rachel apparently did the beading on Claudette’s shawl by hand.

He meets a lot of people, until Rachel drags him away, determined to have a private conversation with just the two of them.

There’s a table tucked away in the back corner, one of the only places to sit besides at the bar. It’s got a good view of the tiny dance floor and when Steve finishes a drink, Rachel keeps sneaking behind the bar to refill his glass herself, rather than waiting on the bartenders working tonight.

Under the table, their knees knock together, and Rachel leans in close, Steve bending his head towards her so she can whisper in his ear.

“So how was _your_ summer?” Rachel asks.

Steve blushes a little, staring down into his drink. He’s lost count of how many he’s had. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I know I said I’d be back, but it took me so long.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I know its not for everyone, coming inside like this. I’m just so glad you’re here now.”

“Yeah, me too,” he replies, meaning it more than he’s meant anything in a long time. “So how goes those croquis?”

Rachel groans into her hands and then tells him, in long-winded and dramatic fashion, just how impossible it is to draw _anything_. Steve laughs at her, but only a little bit, and ends up giving her a quick, drunken tutorial on a crumpled piece of paper he pulls from his pocket.

Rachel’s in the middle of making him sign the messy sketch – “It’s my very first Steve original!” – when a shadow falls over their table, a huge hulking figure blocking out the dim light.

Steve glances up and then glances up a little more when it becomes clear the man is taller than he expected. He broader than average, too, with big arms crossed over his chest. He’s mean mugging them, scowling down his long nose, and Steve shoulders his way in front of Rachel a bit, ready to protect her from this terrifying man. He’s probably ready to pound them into smithereens for being in a bar like this.

“Hi,” Rachel says, elbowing Steve away a little. She doesn’t sound terrified, doesn’t sound like her pulse is racing and she’s bracing herself for a fight. Instead she appears to be a little sheepish, like a child caught doing something they know full well is against the rules.

“It’s after eleven,” says the behemoth, glancing at his watch before he frowns at Rachel. “ _Well_ after eleven.”

“I know.” Rachel groans. “But tonight’s a special occasion. Steve’s here. Remember my friend Steve? The one I met outside the art center?”

The man goes from frowning at Rachel to outright glaring at Steve. Despite his lingering fear, Steve sits up a little straighter, shoulders back and chin held high.

“The one you brought here? The one who was fighting? The one who never came back?”

“He came back!” says Rachel, giggling and delighted.

The man raises an eyebrow, scowls at Rachel’s drink on the table, and the scoops it up out of reach when Rachel make a move towards it. “Whiskey,” he mutters under his breath, sniffing the drink. “The good stuff.”

“It’s a special occasion!” Rachel says. “Steve, this is Sully. Sully, meet Steve.”

Steve gapes up at the famed Sully. When he pictured Rachel’s uncle, it was someone more effeminate. Instead, Sully looks like a man who never learned how to smile, just about as far from a campy fairy as you can get.

He reminds Steve of Kieran, the hardest, meanest, most tough living of Bucky’s uncles. They’ve got the same auburn hair and the same surly attitude.

“Hello, sir,” Steve manages, getting to his feet. He only stumbles a little as he extends his hand for Sully to shake. He feels patently ridiculous, acting like he’s picking Rachel up for a date rather than meeting the proprietor of the neighborhood queer bar.

Sully grunts in reply, but he shakes Steve hand anyway. His grip is a little too tight.

“You know the rules, kid,” Sully says, throwing back the remnants of Rachel’s drink. “You’re not supposed to be down here so late on Saturday nights, not until you’re at least seventeen.”

“Oy vey,” Rachel says, groaning some more. “Are you trying to embarrass me in front of my new friend Steve?”

“Take it upstairs.” Sully confiscates Steve’s drink. “You can bring junior here with you.”

So Rachel brings him upstairs to the third floor, where she gives him a brief tour of the comfortable apartment she shares with Sully. She rustles up another bottle of liquor, and they end up on the roof with a blanket and the bottle.

They talk about what the stars might look like above them, if they were far away enough from the city to see them better, laughing and joking and not making much sense in their drunkenness. Steve stays until Rachel starts to nod off on his shoulder and he realizes he’s got no explanation for Bucky, for where he’s been since their double date ended hours ago.

* * *

 

He stumbles home to an empty apartment. It’s a relief, beating Bucky home because Steve can just pretend he’s been here all night, but it’s also not. Bucky’s out late. It’s probably his most successful date with Maryann yet, seeing as he was home by ten all the other times he took her out.

Steve scrambles to get undressed and into bed before Bucky can catch him all drunk. He’s just manages to get the lights off when he hears the key in the lock. He pretends to be asleep as the room spins around him.

Bucky takes his sweet time coming back into the bedroom. Steve hears him shuffling around, his feet dragging on the wood floor, as Steve tries to take deep breaths and calm his racing heart. Even as drunk as he is, its obvious just from Bucky's heavy footsteps that Bucky’s just as bad off, if not worse.

Bucky takes so long getting ready for bed, that Steve’s nearly asleep by the time Bucky gets to the bedroom, gently shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

Before getting into his own bed, Bucky comes over to Steve’s, pulling up the blankets and tucking him in a little. His hand ghosts over Steve’s hair and Steve falls asleep happy.

* * *

 

“Get up,” Bucky says, shaking his shoulders at an ungodly hour the next morning.

Steve groans, a headache throbbing at his temples, and presses his face into his pillow.

“Get up, get up.” Bucky’s poking at Steve’s back now. Blindly, Steve swats at Bucky’s hand, but its no use. He’ll not be getting any more sleep this morning, not with Bucky so insistent.

Steve lifts his head, struggling to open eyes crusty with sleep. He glares at Bucky with everything he’s got. Bucky looks as terrible as Steve feels, skin a little grey, circles under his eyes, mouth held in a thin, tight line, and his obvious misery makes Steve feel a little better, that at least he’s not suffering alone.

A little, but not much.

“We’ve got church.” Bucky says _church_ the same way he says _bills_ , with deep resentment and despair.

“We do?” Steve asks, sitting up. “Again?”

This is a their third Sunday in a row, an unprecedented number of Sundays since before Bucky took up with Maryanne. She’s been sitting with them in the Barnes pew in the front, rather than with her own family farther back.

Twenty minutes later, Steve dressed and guzzling black coffee. Bucky’s in such bad shape that he doesn’t seem to notice that Steve’s no better off.

“So how was it?” Steve asks as Bucky pulls on his jacket.

“How was what?”

“The rest of your night. With Maryanne? You sure must’ve got back late.”

Bucky grunts again. Steve is rapidly losing patience with Bucky’s hangover communication style.

“Buck, come on. What happened?” It must not’ve been good, the way Bucky’s banging about here this morning, all grumbly and cross.

“Don’t even ask,” Bucky mutters. He grabs his keys and tosses Steve his jacket. “I’ll meet you out front.”

Steve takes another few minutes to finish his coffee before joining Bucky on the sidewalk. They take off in the direction of Assumption without a word, and Steve’s got an extra bounce in his step.

It’s just plan wrong, to be grinning and giddy when he’s best friend fails to go the distance with yet another gal, but Steve can’t help hoping that this means they’ve seen the last of Maryanne.

* * *

 

"Hey, Ma," Bucky says when he slides into the church pew, Steve following right behind.

"Why is Maryanne sitting in the back with the rest of the Donahues instead of up here with us?" Winnie asks as Bucky leans over Beck to kiss her cheek in greeting.

"Aw, come on, Ma," Bucky says. He's hurting too much to effectively hide his grimace with a cocky grin. "Mass is about to start."

" _James_ ," Winnie says, her voice low and dangerous.

Steve sits on the end of the row next to Bucky and watches a tick in his jaw where he's grinding his teeth together.

"It didn't work out, okay? She's just ain't right for me," he mutters. He sounds so distraught, so uncomfortable, that Steve wants to reach out and squeeze his knee, or maybe tug Bucky down until his head is resting on Steve's shoulder.

Instead he just presses his thigh into Bucky's a little harder, even though they're already pressed together from the close quarters of the packed pew.

"I have very little faith in your own ability to judge what is _right_ for you, Bucky." Winnie gives a significant glance between Steve and Bucky before staring straight ahead.

In his chest, Steve heart lurches. It's comments like that, few and far between as they may be, that leave Steve convinced that Winnie knows exactly what they were getting up to in Bucky's bed nearly every night of those nine months that Steve lived in the family home.

At his side, Bucky sits tall and straight, but he stares down at his lap, a little too much color in his cheeks.

"She's too scared to cross the street, Mother," Beck says, rolling her eyes. "You need to be made of tougher stuff than that to be a Barnes. She wasn't right _at all_."

Steve doesn't breathe again until a hush goes through the congregation at the start of Mass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I have one. Come say hi, if you are so inclined.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So disclaimer:  
> My dad is Jewish, but not religious at all, so all my knowledge on Judaism comes from my also not all that religious extended family and my very old grandma, who was gracious enough to answer a million questions for me when I was writing this fic. So I think this is mostly accurate? But she is quite old. The Yiddish spelling come from her too. So apologies for any glaring errors here. 
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/)

Steve laughs actual, genuine laughter as he goes through the trunk full of all his remaining possessions. The stacks of notebooks filled with sketches and Bucky’s startling collection of pulps aren’t particularly funny. He’s just so goddamn delighted to have something back from their life together. So he pulls Bucky’s favorite sweater out of the trunk, smelling all dusty and musty, and he laughs.

The night before he shipped out with the USO to Europe, he and Rachel packed up everything into boxes, all shoved into the back of the closet, and it’s nearly all here. Apparently, his drafting tools and some of his more benign art was donated to the Smithsonian sometime in the 60s, but the rest is here. A couple rosaries, a dinky little menorah, the chipped blue and white ceramic bowl where they’d throw their loose change in at the end of the day.

The rest of their belongings are scattered throughout the girls’ home, integrated seamlessly into the décor of the apartment. His mother’s landscapes hang in the guestroom and the hallway; her vase is in Beck’s office. A photograph of Bucky with Steve and Beck out on the front steps of the Barnes’ brand new brownstone in Park Slope sits on the mantle. Next to it is a candid taken at the bar, with Steve drawing at the counter, Rachel and Bucky talking animatedly about something in the background.

Steve gets to spend the night in a room with his mother’s art lining the walls.

“Goodnight, Steve,” Rachel murmurs as they part ways in the hall. She tugs on the collar of his shirt and he bends down so she can kiss his cheek. “I love you very much. Welcome home.”

For the first time in the 21st century, Steve sleeps through the night. And he doesn’t dream.

* * *

 

In the morning, he cuts up fruit for breakfast, and he doesn’t ask any more questions about all the years he missed. He’s still raw and wrung out from the night before, and he might feel almost content after a goodnight’s sleep, but it’s still overwhelming.

Even without asking questions, he picks up bits and pieces. Rachel made a living designing dresses for society ladies and drag queens alike, somehow. Beck’s was a professor and wrote a whole bunch of books. They have _money_ now.

This home, the one that gives queer kids with no families a safe place to live, is their legacy, and they’re both fiercely proud of it.

Rachel still starts her day with a prayer in Hebrew. Beck still frowns over everything, but she’s got nothing but soft smiles for her wife.

And that’s what Rachel is. Her _wife_.

Rachel has a wife. Steve could have a—

Well. No, he couldn’t. Marriage laws have changed since his time, but Bucky’s still dead.

Steve makes breakfast. Apparently, when Steve isn’t taking up residence in their guest room, there is a woman that comes up a couple times a day to do this sort of thing.   A nurse who spends part of her time up here helping the girls stick to their elaborate regime of medications, and the rest of her time working with the kids downstairs. Her name is Mia. She’s also got a wife. Olive, the one who runs the home.

Rachel chatters about everything Mia does, and Steve realizes for the first time that she and Beck are _old_. Extremely old. Far older than most people made it back in their day.

Rachel struggles to stay focused and repeats herself, forgetting after only a few minutes what she’s just told Steve. Beck can't get out of bed by herself some mornings and she spends most of her days in a chair, hooked up to an oxygen tank.

Rebecca reminds Steve of 1933, when he was so weak he had to rely on Bucky and his mother to feed him, clothe him, even bathe him. He was furious, with his own deficient body and the crippling shame that he couldn't do the smallest tasks for himself. Bucky and Ma took care of him, loved him, and in return Steve let his fury spill over onto them, with scathing comments, complete ingratitude, and sometimes even _yelling_.

Beck is handling the whole thing with a lot more grace than Steve did.

"I got used to it," Beck says when she catches Steve frowning at her wheelchair as he slices a peach. "My body's been crumbling since I was 75, and for awhile there I was a right pill about needing the help. But it upset Rachel, me snapping at her or snapping at the caregivers. So I shut up until I got used to it. Not so bad, Steve-o. I'd rather have my body useless than my mind gone."

Steve refills her mug of coffee. "When'd you get so wise, huh?"

Beck snorts. "Ninety years of living will do that to you."

“You’re eighty-eight,” says Rachel. “Don’t exaggerate.”

When he reaches for the bananas to add to the fruit salad, Beck says, "Trust me, you don't want to go there."

Steve shrugs and keeps putting together breakfast. Rachel suggests fruit and toast, but tells Steve he needs protein, directing him towards the eggs and bacon in the ice box. He knows that rationing is long over, that people of the 21st century don't have to live around food shortage, and that Rachel and Beck seem to be richer than God (although not quite as rich as Tony Stark). Still, the sight of so much bacon makes his heart race and his mouth water.

"You eat bacon now?" he asks.

"No, _sir_." Rachel gasps theatrically, like she's mortally offended. "Beck likes it. Cook it in the green pan."

"You're so good to me, darling."

"Aw, thank you, Rebecca."

"I was talking to Steve," Beck quips. "He's the one doing the cooking."

Rachel laughs and swats Beck in the arm with a rolled up newspaper before she goes back to reading it with the assistance of a very large magnifying glass.

Just being near Beck and Rachel, listening to them bicker while he prepares breakfast, it’s the first little peace he’s had in this century.

Bucky was always better than him at cooking, but Rachel grew up behind a deli counter and she talks him through it from her seat at the kitchen table. Bacon sizzles and Steve breathes deep, groaning over the smell.

They eat on the balcony. It’s a huge space, big enough for a table that seats six, some sofas surrounding a fireplace, and a couple chairs designed for lounging around and napping in the sun. There are all manner of flowers in boxes that hang over the edge of the railing, and vines crawl up the brick walls.

Throughout breakfast, Steve keeps glancing over the railing, expecting SHIELD to roll up and yell at him about wandering away on his own. Maybe they can’t find him.

More likely, they know exactly where he is and have decided to give him some space, to treat him like a person instead of a symbol and just let him be for a minute.

After breakfast, the girls follow him to the kitchen to watch him do the dishes.

"So what's next for you?" Rachel asks.

She sounds like a fucking journalist, like the SHIELD officials trying to get him to sign up with them, and like Tony Stark, already starting plans to remodel an entire floor of The Tower just for Steve in the hopes that he'll stay.

Steve squeezes a coffee mug in his hands, surprised to feel it shatter in his grip. He keeps his back turned to the girls, so they won't see the blood. Running water over the cuts, he watches as they close up before his eyes.

"I don't mean to push you," Rachel continues, oblivious to Steve's wounds but not his sudden distress. "And we don't want anything from you. But, please, just know you’re welcome here anytime. _All_ the time, if you want. Anytime at all. We want you to be where ever you want to be, and if that place is here. Well, _good_. Then be here."

"Okay," says Steve, relaxing slightly. They don’t want anything from him. Its been a long time, since someone wanted him around for reasons outside propaganda and war. "Thanks."

He still leaves an hour later, determined to go back into the city and be useful, explaining to Rachel as she walks him to the door.

"Aliens," he says, pausing in the entryway. "From outer space. Can you believe it?"

"No." Rachel shakes her head, chuckling. "But I still can't really believe that you went from my tiny best friend to a hulking national icon."

"I'm still your best friend, Rach."

She beams up at him and says, “You’re my family, too.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, his throat tight.

Steve loiters with his hands on the door handle. Despite being antsy to get back to the city, he's suddenly hesitant to leave Rachel again.

"I’m really here, somehow. That’s another thing I can't believe," he says.

"Me neither," Rachel whispers.

"And of course I'd wake up just to go to war with aliens."

Rachel winces. "Unfortunately, it's not just the aliens. Wars don't end like they used to, bubbeleh."

"But our war did?" His voice sounds small, more Brooklyn than Captain America. "That's what they all told me."

"It did," Rachel assures him. "It lead right into a couple different ones, but it ended. With treaties and our boys coming home and everything."

"How?" asks Steve, knowing full well Rachel won't have his answers when he's not even totally sure what he's asking. _“Was it worth it?”_ he doesn't ask. “ _What does winning look like?”_

"What? You want, like, specific military operations? Because I don't know enough to tell you."

"I guess," says Steve.

Rachel suddenly gets very quiet and very sad, her face twisted with grief. Steve braces himself for the next great, painful revelation. There's been so many, since he woke up.

"Steve," she whispers. "Did they tell you about Japan?"

Steve takes a deep breath. "Just that they surrendered."

"I don't want to tell you why."

"Rachel."

"No," she says, shaking her head. "It's too much. You were frozen for seventy years, Steve! Bucky only died forty-eight days ago to you. And now you’re here and so much has happened. It's too much. You're going to be so, so disappointed."

He takes a deep breath. "Just tell me."

She stares up at him, studying him intently. She takes his hand and her voice wavers as she speaks.

Bombs.

Atomic bombs. Dropped on Hiroshima and then, several days later, Nagasaki. Several hundred thousand dead, many more to go later from the radiation.

"So you're telling me," Steve says, struggling to comprehend. "That a couple months after I crashed a plane full of bombs in the arctic to stop them from demolishing the eastern seaboard, we turned around at did the same thing to Japan?"

"Yes," Rachel whispers.

"Jesus Christ."

Rachel does not want him to leave, after that. She says he's too pale, that he shouldn't be alone, but Steve desperately needs to haul around huge slabs of concrete ten times his body weight, do anything that will actually cause a real strain in his muscles.   Distractions. He needs _distractions_.

So he kisses her cheek and promises to come back for dinner and somehow keeps from throwing up until he's two blocks away. He empties his stomach right there in a rather lovely flowerbed, ten pieces of bacon and all.

Later, after cleaning up another city block and checking to make sure Tony Stark's still alive in his lab, Director Fury sits him down and says, "We still need you, Cap."

"We dropped atomic bombs on Japan in 1945," Steve says, getting some sick pleasure out Fury's wince. "What the fuck have we been doing since then, huh?"

Director Fury stares him down, but his intense look ain't half as effective as Winnie's was. Steve doesn’t even blink.

"Our best," he says. "We've done our best."

When Steve leaves to go back to Brooklyn, Fury doesn't stop him.

* * *

 

**1938**

He’s only been back to the bar four times, usually during the day but also once at night when Bucky had a date. Four times, and he’s already learned a whole lot about Rachel Rosenbaum.

She’s a Jew. She’s from the lower east side, growing up in the kitchen of the restaurant her parents ran. She practices smoothing out her accent, but sometimes the Yiddish comes out and she sounds like Bucky’s bubbe.

Sully is not actually her uncle, but her father’s childhood best friend. She grew up calling him Uncle Sully, but when she was eleven he stopped coming around and she heard her parents whispering about his _perversions_.

During the week she serves drinks at Sully’s bar, even though she’s at least a few years too young for it. On the weekends she apprentices with a tailor in Williamsburg. She wants to design her own dresses and spends too much money on Vogues when she can manage it, much to Sully’s disgruntlement.

Between pouring drinks, Rachel shares all these pieces of herself, ready and willing to be his friend, even when he gives her nothing in return.

Steve sits at the bar with a sketchbook and can’t even bring himself to tell her his last name, or about Bucky, or about his WPA job. Rachel doesn’t seem to mind, perfectly content to fill in the gaps where his response should be with chatter of her own.

She tells him the secrets to perfect matzo ball soup and complains that Sully won’t even try to dress a little more dapper, even on the rare weekend that the bar hosts slightly more glamorous parties for drag queens.

She tells him that she ran away from home when she was fifteen, after years of arguing with her mother about finding a nice Jewish husband, and that she doesn’t miss her parents but she misses the cadence of Yiddish and her long dead bubbe and Hebrew School. Her voice gets quiet and weepy when she talks about her grandmother, the one who raised her when her own mother was uninterested in parenting. The one who still loved her, even after she confessed at eight years old that she would never want a husband, but a wife might be okay.

Today, when Rachel finally gets a minute to talk to him after sweeping the whole bar, she tells him how she kissed her best friend on four separate occasions under the ruse of practicing for their future husbands.

Steve is so close to opening his mouth and telling his own story. He almost says, _“I kissed my best friend on the day my mother was diagnosed with TB. Or maybe he kissed me. It’s impossible to remember, but we don’t do that anymore.”_

Instead he chokes on a mouthful of beer and Rachel leans across the bar to smack his crooked back, laughing.

"Well blow me down with a feather," says Rachel, getting a good look at Steve’s open sketchbook when he finally gets a handle on the coughing.

He likes coming in here to draw, when the apartment feels too stuffy and closed in for creativity. He got a good amount of work done today, and has been messing around with shading on a portrait of Rachel working for the last half an hour, just for fun.

"Is that _me_?” she asks. “Azoy?"

Steve jerks on his stool and flails to cover the drawing, but it's too late. Rachel's caught him.

"Sorry!" Steve panics as Rachel gets the notebook away from him, holding it aloft to stare better. "I shoulda asked. It's just a doodle."

“Doodle!” Rachel says, aghast. “You take that back!”

“Sorry?”

"You're really good," she says, looking at Steve like she's just seeing him for the first time. "This is only a _doodle_? Hell, Steven. What can you do when you're actually trying?"

"You saw me outside the art center," Steve says, ears turning red.

"Yeah, well I was thinking you were a student like me! Just trying to figure out the lead end of a pencil. This is _art_. You're an _artist_."

Rachel's got this way of making the complicated way Steve sees himself sound so very simple. “ _You're an artist_ ,” she says _. “You're queer_ ,” she says. And before her, he's never been able to think of himself as either of those things.

Artists are the guys who can paint giant masterpieces with oils or craft sculptures so awesome it makes your breath catch in your throat. Guys who have no trouble seeing colors, who don't cough for hours after inhaling just a little charcoal dust, who don't have to take months off in the winter just to survive an illness. Guys with vision. Guys with something to say.

Queer has always been just fine for everyone else. Steve would never judge someone for it, never think of them as perverts or disgusting delinquents, but he's never had the same grace for himself. He's tried the label on in his head, called himself Queer Steve Rogers as he looked in a mirror, but he can't do it without feeling sick with shame. There are echoes in his mind of every bully who ever called him a shrimp, a girl, a _fairy_.

But why shouldn't it be as simple as Rachel says it?

He can take a pencil to a piece of paper and create something that looks more realistic than a photograph. He likes boys the same way he likes girls, and the WPA is paying him a weekly salary for his art. He's been in love with his best friend for years.

It's that simple. Artist. Queer.

"Do you mind?" Rachel asks, moving to turn the page in his sketchbook. And maybe before Steve decided to make it simple, he'd have said no, but he's an artist and he's queer, so he's not ashamed of so many pages are lovingly filled in with every line and freckle of Bucky's face.

"Go ahead," he says.

Rachel grins wide as she _oohs_ and _aahs_. She pauses at the first portrait of Bucky, the most recent one that he actually managed to sit still for, and glances up at Steve, raising an eyebrow.

For once she contains herself from pressing for more information when Steve simply says, "That's my best friend. My roommate."

She studies each page with such attention and Steve will not let himself feel awkward or embarrassed. _Artists_ are used to people looking at their work, after all.

"You're an artist," Rachel declares again.

"Who's an artist?" says some fella, sliding into the stool next to Steve's. The clientele at Sully's tends to be a little older, thirties and forties maybe, but this guy might only have a handful of years on Steve. He's probably Puerto Rican, with dark eyes, dark hair, brown skin, and cheekbones even sharper than Bucky's.

"Steve," says Rachel. "Meet Raul. Raul, that's Steve."

"Steve the Artist," says Raul, reaching out to shake his hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"Yeah, sure," replies Steve. It's gets complicated again, with Raul calling him an artist. Steve's back to feeling like a phony but he manages to return the firm handshake and not blush.

Rachel pours Raul a beer without being asked. She slides the sketchbook across the bar top towards Steve, and Raul shamelessly tries to get a peak of Bucky napping on their couch.

"Hey, you're pretty good," says Raul as Steve glares and snaps up the sketchbook. "Ever draw anything blue?"

Steve almost says no, but then doesn't. Instead he asks, "You paying?"

And that's how he ends up agreeing to draw completely illegal and totally blush-worthy pictures for three separate bar patrons in one afternoon.

Steve Rogers, queer artist, drawer of dirty pictures.

 _Lord_.

* * *

 

Rachel is not Bucky. She did not help nurse Steve back from the brink of death for the first time when she was eight years old. She does not panic whenever Steve sneezes. She does not treat him like he's fragile and Steve is determined to keep it that way.

So he gets out all his coughing before he pushes open the door to Sully's. It’s nothing, just a frog in his throat, but Bucky would fret if he heard it and he doesn’t want to encourage any fretting in his new friend Rachel.

It's just after noon, and there are a handful of workers eating at the bar. Today Rachel made some sort of stew, something thick and Irish and smelling just like his mother's kitchen.

He nods at a couple familiar faces – Raul and Peter, he owes them a sketch – before looking towards his usual stool at the end of the bar.

Someone is already perched there, chatting with Rachel. She's got her sketchbook open and is talking rapidly, gesturing wildly with her hands. The man before her nods back and scribbles something right there on Rachel's papers.

Steve doesn't want to interrupt. He also doesn't want to sit somewhere else on his own. The fellas here are nice enough, but he learned real quick that sitting away from Rachel was the same as asking to be cruised.

Which is not always a bad thing. Sometimes its nice, to have someone so obviously interested in him, even if he has yet to find the courage to try anything with anyone who isn't Bucky. But mostly fellas talk to him like he's a fairy, just because he’s small, like he wants a reminder that he's weak and tiny.

"Steve!" Rachel catches sight of him loitering awkwardly by the door. "Shalom."

"Hi," says Steve, coming over to the bar.

The man Rachel's talking to is older, closer to Sully's age. He's graying around the temples and well groomed, maybe Italian. He smiles at Steve like they know each other, easy and warm.

"Hello," says Steve, extending a hand. "I'm Steve."

The man grins wider and chuckles, returning the handshake. "Frank."

"Good to meet you," Steve says, settling down on a stool as Rachel pours him a drink.

"Sure." Frank turns back to Rachel. He flips the sketchbook closed and slides it across the bar. "Any other questions, Miss Rosenbaum?"

"Don't you call me that," Rachel says, going from happy to tense in a breath of a few seconds. “It's too Jewish."

"You just said shalom instead of hello," says Frank.

"A bad habit in need of breaking." Rachel turns away to clean an already sparking glass. "It's a bad day to be a Jew in Brooklyn."

That makes every hair stand up on Steve's arms, a shiver running up his spine.

Frank reaches over the bar to squeeze Rachel's shoulder. On rougher nights, Steve's seen Rachel spit fire at drunken men who are indiscriminate about their cruising and put a hand on her shoulder near the end of the night, but Rachel just leans into Frank's touch.

"Come by early on Saturday," he says. "I don't have any appointments until 11. We'll have a few hours to work before that if you can manage to be on time for once."

Rachel cracks a smile. "Thanks, Frank."

Frank stands, nodding at Steve and slipping on his jacket. He winds his way through the bar, disappearing into the private office to use the back exit instead of the front.

"Friend of Sully's?" Steve asks.

"You really don't recognize him like that, huh?" says Rachel. "That's actually kinda comforting."

"What?"

"You've met Frank before," she says. "Only at the time she was in a flashy dress and going by Claudette."

Steve's mouth falls open. "That was _Claudette_?"

"Well, today and most days he goes by Frank. But yes, same person."

"Whoa, she cleans up nice."

Rachel giggles into her hands. "I'll tell him you said so. Frank's known Sully forever. He's the tailor I was telling you about. The one I've been helping out on weekends. We're starting on one of my designs."

Rachel spends the next half an hour showing Steve her sketches for the dress, included Frank's scribbled notations. He compliments her figure drawing, genuinely impressed by the progress she’s made.

By the end of the conversation, she seems nearly as happy as she did before she called her Hebrew a bad habit. Steve hates to make her frown again like that, but he's gotta know.

"Rachel," he says, trying to be gentle. "Why's it a bad time to be a Jew in Brooklyn?"

Rachel sighs and rummages around under the bar, producing a wrinkled newspaper. She taps on a specific article and Steve reads out loud.  

" _Over 2000 members and sympathizers of the pro-Nazi German-American Bund meet at the Prospect Hall; 200 from the American League for Peace and Democracy picket outside_."

"Right here in Brooklyn," Rachel whispers. "Over 2000 bund. Do you remember in the spring, when four German's carved a swastika into some poor Jew's back? The radio announcer?"

Steve does not remember.

He's been so focused on simply surviving since his Ma died that he's barely paid attention to anything outside of his immediate surroundings. Sure, he's heard enough about Hitler on the radio to know that the man is a bully and a tyrant, but Europe is so far away.

This is different. They could _walk_ to Prospect Hall.

Steve might not pay much attention to the wider world, but he's got enough experience with bullies to know that they don't simply stop on their own. Someone's gotta make them.

"Well, everybody said it was an anomaly," Rachel says. "Brooklyn's full of democrats and lefties. No Nazi's here! Except now we've got 2000 Bund meeting openly in our own backyard! Europe's troubles won't cross the Atlantic, they say. _Sure_ , they won't."

"Rachel, I'm—“ Steve stops talking abruptly when he realizes he's got no clue what to say. _I'm sorry? It's awful? Please be careful out there?_ It's all meaningless, no words enough to give her any comfort or peace.

A customer at the other end the bar calls out for a refill and Rachel takes a deep breath, steadying herself before moving away to do her job with a smile on her face.

Steve watches her and feels sick to his stomach, nauseous and faint and afraid.

Steve was not one of the 2000 bund meeting at Prospect Hall, but he wasn't a picketer either. He's learned this lesson over and over. Sitting silent as a bully pounds on the little guy is just as bad as doing the pounding yourself.

Until this moment, Steve never thought to apply this to the great wide world. He's been so focused on the bully right in front of him, he completely ignored the people with the real power.

He was so angry and righteous when he was a kid. Maybe if his Ma didn’t die, if he and Bucky didn’t have to focus everything on not starving to death during those hard years, Steve would’ve had the energy to stay that righteous. Maybe he would’ve been one of those protesters, instead of part of the willfully ignorant majority, turning a blind eye to the injustice going on right in their backyard.

Steve's ignorance in this is just unacceptable, and he fully intends on telling Rachel so, on working himself up to a good rant, but when Rachel comes back she holds up a hand and says, "Don't even start."

"But—“

"No, I don't want to think about it anymore. You know how you can help? Distract me. Talk about something else, something to help me forget all about it."

Steve blinks at her for a few seconds, desperately trying to come up with a topic. As usual when his mind is left to it's own devices, it reverts back to Bucky.

"You know my best friend’s Jewish," he blurts out.

Rachel raises one eyebrow and smirks. Steve blushes a little, because that ain't much of a subject change and usually he works really hard not to mention Bucky to Rachel because something happens to his face when he talks about Bucky and Rachel just _knows_. When Steve says, “M _y roommate, my best pal, this kid I grew up with_ ,” Rachel smirks and says, _"Your_ friend _, huh? He must be a real good_ friend _, huh? Tell me more about this_ friend _, why don’t you."_

And loving Bucky quietly, secretly in his own head is pathetic enough. He doesn't need Rachel to know he's obsessed with someone he can't ever have again.

"This the guy you live with?" Rachel asks. "Your best pal whose apparently only your _friend_?"

Steve, predictably, blushes even harder.

"Yeah," Steve says, brushing his bangs to the side. "Well, not really Jewish. His dad's a Jew. Mom's Irish Catholic. Growing up, he was in church every Sunday. Don't think he ever went to the Jew version, except on high holy holidays to make his bubbe happy."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Synagogue. It’s called a _synagogue_. You got high holy days but you don’t know synagogue?"

“Right, _synagogue_."

"Technically, he'd only be Jewish if his mom is. But I don't know. Having a Jewish dad was probably enough to get him called nasty names plenty of times."

"Yeah," Steve says, wincing.

“Being Irish is enough for that, too.”

“Sure, but no one’s carving swastikas into our backs.”

Rachel looks sad again and Steve can't bear it. She asked for a subject change, a distraction, and Steve just made it worse. Surely, there's a topic of conversation that will both distract her and cheer her up.

There is exactly one thing that Rachel has show genuine, smirking, delighted interest in. Over and over, she perks right up whenever he mentions Bucky, even in the most round about of ways.

And why shouldn't he tell Rachel? She's the only person he's ever met that he _could_ tell and maybe it's not embarrassment that's kept him from even uttering Bucky's name in this place. He's so conditioned to not talk about him and Bucky, that telling Rachel about this part of his life – arguably, the biggest part of his life – never seemed like an option until this moment.

"His name is James," Steve says, wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. He's never told Rachel his own last name and he certainly ain't gonna give her Bucky's. There's a whole lot more Jameses running around Brooklyn than Buckys.

Rachel stands up straight, her eyes bulging slightly as she stares at him.

"He's been my best pal since we were small. Grew up on the same block. My ma knew his ma from church, and from, you know, just being Irish, but they got close after we started hanging around each other all the time. We were basically family, after that, my Ma and I joining them for holidays and stuff. Even after his dad's business took off and they moved somewhere nicer."

Steve's babbling. He pauses to take a deep breath and peak up at Rachel's face. She's smiling a little.

"I love him," Steve says, shrugging. Because it really is that simple.

Rachel squeezes his hand. "Okay," she whispers.

Steve takes a deep breath and flops down to rest his forehead on the sticky bar top. Rachel pats his back, leaves to pour more drinks, and then pats his back a few more times, before he summons the courage to lift his head and keep on talking about Bucky.

* * *

 

A month later, when Steve reads in the paper about Kristallnacht, he neglects his plans to spend the day doing laundry and rushes to the bar first thing.

Sully’s standing behind it, looking grim as always. It’s rare to see him in here this early in the day and Steve freezes in the doorway at the sight of him. Sully just shakes his head and leads Steve into the back room, gesturing towards the staircase.

“Third floor,” he murmurs, squeezing Steve’s shoulder and going back to the bar.

Rachel lets him in only a second after a knock, almost like he’s expected. He’s never seen her without her face perfectly painted, and without the red lipstick she looks younger. Her hair is flat and she’s actually wearing slacks for once, and an ill fitted shirt that looks like it might belong to Sully. A scarf is wrapped around her neck. Even though Sully keeps their apartment far hotter than Steve and Bucky could afford with theirs, Rachel’s shivering.

“Hi,” Steve says, at a loss for words.

“Hi,” Rachel replies, stepping inside and letting him in.

They spend the morning on the sofa, Rachel crying on his shoulder.

* * *

 

When he gets home that night, when Bucky asks why he didn’t do the laundry, Steve can’t manage a lie.

“The Nazis burned down a bunch of Jewish buildings all over Germany,” he says, collapsing next to Bucky on the sofa. Bucky looks exhausted, slouched way down with his head against the back cushions, like he’s ready to fall asleep right there. “I got distracted.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky frowns, turning to face him. “I went to see my bubbe after work.”

“You _did_?” It’s not as shocking as if Bucky announced that he went to see his father, but Bucky doesn’t even speak much Yiddish. George always had to translate between his mother and his children.

Bucky shrugs.

“Have you seen her since we left?”

“Yeah, I go over there every couple months. She gets upset, you know. Likes to feed me way too much and hold my hand.” Bucky’s cheeks turn a little pink, like he’s embarrassed.

“That’s real nice,” Steve murmurs. “I didn’t know you did that, but it’s real nice.”

“Coulda swore I told you.”

“Nope, I didn’t know.”

“Huh.”

Steve shifts, mimicking Bucky’s position. He curls in on himself a little, until it feels like he and Bucky are in a protective little bubble, where no one can touch them.

“A month ago 2000 bund met at Prospect Hall,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, closing his eyes.

“And last spring, someone craved a swastika into that radio broadcaster’s back.”

“Yeah.”

“But you knew all that, didn’t you,” Steve murmurs.

He always thought it was the both of them, too wrapped up in just getting through the week to pay much attention to anything else. But Bucky knows. Bucky reads the paper. Bucky’s careful. Bucky doesn’t have the luxury of not paying attention because 2000 bund in their backyard want to hurt him.

“Hey, I only know a few words in Yiddish, but I get what my bubbe means when she’s points at the paper and then grabs my collar and begs me to be careful.”

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. “But someone’s got to stop them? Right, Bucky? Right! It’s gotta stop at some point.”

“I don’t know, pal.”

They sit in silence on the sofa for a long time, before they get up to do the laundry together.

* * *

 

"Chanukah starts at sun down tomorrow," Rachel says before Steve even takes a seat on his stool.

"Chanukah?" he asks, unwrapping Bucky's scarf from around his neck. He shivers and shakes the snow off his hat.

"Jewish holiday. Festival of lights? Really? You got nothing? You're best friend is half a Jew and you don't know about Chanukah. It's no Rosh Hashanah, but even so." She shakes her head, apparently very disappointed.

"Sorry, Rach." He dumps all his warm clothes on the stool next to his. Winter is in full swing outside, snow falling thick and heavy, the streets miserable and wet. "He’s never much talked about what they did the few times a year they went to see his pop’s side of the family."

"Did you ever see one of these?" she asks, pulling out a little pewter candle holder and placing it on the bar. "Its a menorah."

"Yeah, actually. You light a one every night for awhile, right? Around Christmas time? They definitely did that." He studies the menorah. It's tarnished and dented, much smaller than the Barnes' slightly more elaborate version that sat on their mantel.

It hits him suddenly, that this is yet another part of himself that Bucky gave up when he left home with Steve. He was always more Catholic than Jewish, his ma insistent on Mass every Sunday when his father only insisted on synagogue a few times a year. Steve might not have seen it much, but this religion was part of Bucky's life, before. He used to practice a few Yiddish phrases to communicate with his grandma and he kept a flat little Jewish hat in the top drawer of his dresser, next to a rosary.

These days, when they're feeling homesick and nostalgic, they'll go to Mass even without a stern note from Winnie requesting their presence, but Bucky's got no where to turn when he starts missing the Jewish part of his old life.

"Where can I get one of these?" Steve asks, running his fingertips over the first narrow candle holder.

Rachel beams, like she was both hoping and expecting him to ask that question. "Keep that one."

"No, Rachel. I couldn't."

"You can and you will. Give it to your friend. You said he doesn’t see his family much since you guys moved out, right? Light a candle tomorrow. I'll write out a blessing for you."

"It's yours."

"I've got a nicer one upstairs," Rachel says, shrugging. She starts wiping down the bar top with a rag even though it’s perfectly clean for once. "I stole my bubbe's menorah when I ran away. That one my ma gave me. And my ma is _terrible_. I don't want it. You're doing me a favor taking it off my hands, honest."

When Steve's ready to go home, a few blue drawings and couple hours later, he carefully wraps the menorah in his scarf. Rachel comes around the bar to say goodbye and he hugs her a few beats longer than he normally would.

"Merry Chanukah, Rachel."

She lets out a delighted laugh, saying, "And a Happy Christmas to you." Then she shoos him out of the bar with recommendations on where to buy candles.

* * *

 

Bucky stares at the menorah sitting on the board over the bathtub in their kitchen for a long time before the silence becomes too much and Steve starts to jabber.

"I know, I know, you're not really Jewish because your ma ain’t and you never had a bar mitzvah," Steve says, wringing his hands and pacing the length of the kitchen. “And I know you never really believed in the God stuff, no matter what version.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, obviously amused and surprised by Steve new knowledge. Really, he's just directly quoting Rachel.

"But, you did this stuff growing up, right?" Steve continues. "With your tateh? You'd do the holiday stuff. Go to your grandmas and spend the important days with that side of the family?"

"Sure." Bucky speaks slowly and studying Steve like this whole thing is a great big mystery in need of solving.

"Just thought you might miss it, is all," Steve says, shrugging.

He deeply regrets ever asking Rachel for the menorah. It's too strange. Bucky's never said much about the Jewish half of his family, never said much about Judaism so not in at all. He's yelled obscenities and punched out teeth of the nasty boys who called him all manner of names when they were in school, and he's joked over the unlikely love between his parents, the strange life his Catholic mother and Jewish father made together, but he's never offered much of an opinion on his own limited connection to this religion that still seems to foreign and strange to Steve.

"You don't have to keep it," he whispers, but Bucky's hand finds the base, holding it to the tabletop as he shakes his head.

He says, "Got a candle?" and his face looks awfully content in the flickering flame when they light it at sundown.

* * *

 

They spend Christmas alone, just the two of them, for the third year in a row.   Bucky suggests Midnight Mass, making a face like the whole world smells bad, and Steve says, “Why bother? Neither of us are very good Catholics.”

They make it until about eleven, both of them feeling twitchy and nervous, sitting on the couch listening to the radio and not talking.

“Let’s just go,” Bucky finally says, groaning. “It don’t feel like Christmas without Mass.”

Moments like this, when guilt and nostalgia have them seeking out church, they always go all the way Visitation Church in Red Hook. All the Buchanans will be at Assumption, and Bucky’s been avoiding church and his mother since the Maryanne Incident. Going anywhere else in the neighborhood is just asking to run in to someone they know.

At Visitation, they are anonymous, and Steve’s might not believe in any of it, in God even, but recently he’s grown to appreciate the ritual. There is something so comforting about Mass, about communion. Latin and incents remind him of his mother.

The walk home is bitterly cold and Steve shivers in his coat, even with the three sweaters Bucky insisted he layer underneath.

“This was a dumb fucking idea,” Bucky mutters, pulling him close and rubbing his arm. “Too fucking cold for you to be out here.”

“I’m fine, Buck.” Steve hears the shivers in his own voice as he speaks, but he turns his face towards Bucky and he means it anyway.

The next day he’s snuffling over the Christmas roast Bucky’s prepared for them. Its nothing they could imagine affording even last year, even though they’d already been living in the apartment for a few months.

By New Years, Steve’s too exhausted to sit up in bed for more than five minutes at a time. He’s felt it coming on for days, starting with the tickle in his throat that he valiantly ignored until the tickle became a scratch and clearing his throat turned into full blown coughing after Bucky’s alarm woke him. If he could've held off for five minutes more, Bucky would've been off to work, but instead Steve starts hacking just as Bucky’s pulling on his jacket.

"I'm fine," Steve says before Bucky can even open his mouth.

He simply shoots Steve a look of deep skepticism, his eyebrows going up and his lips pressing into a flat line.

"It's just a cold," Steve insists, doing an excellent job of sitting up against his pillows and smiling like he doesn’t want to claw out his sore throat just to stop it hurting.

Bucky rolls his eyes, crossing the room and getting a finger under Steve's chin. At Bucky's coaxing, Steve tilts his face up, Bucky's scrutiny making his cheeks burn.

"You're a little hot," Bucky murmurs, laying a palm over Steve's forehead.

Steve bites out a hysterical laugh. "Just a cold," he repeats.

"Yeah, how many times have I heard _that_ just before you end up in the hospital or some schmuck of a priest’s reading you last rites?"

"Aw, come on, Buck."

"Just take it easy today, alright?"

It’s another foolish moment, with Bucky looking down at Steve and Steve looking up at Bucky, where Steve's breath catches in his chest and he thinks maybe they’re both remembering what it was like to press their lips together.

But then Steve starts coughing again, worse and wetter this time. Bucky rubs his back until Steve manages to get him out the door before Bucky will be too terribly late for work.

He’s worse when Bucky gets home, bad off enough that he can admit that he will not be participating in their elaborate plans to celebrate New Years Eve, plans that involve getting drunk in a variety of neighborhood bars.

“Don’t think I’m gonna make it out tonight, pal,” Steve says, after he finishes guzzling down a glass of water at Bucky’s insistence.

Bucky snorts and takes the glass. “You don’t say?”

“Jerk,” Steve says.

Bucky just grins at him, pushing his damp bangs off his forehead. “Think you’re up for laying out on the couch at least?”

“No, I’m just gonna sleep in here while you go out.”

“I ain’t going out,” Bucky says, like Steve is very stupid and this should be very obvious.

“You were all excited to kiss a dame at midnight.”

“I’ll make do.”

So Steve moves to the couch and Beck comes over, bearing a deck of cards and a bottle of wine she stole from the party raging at her parents’ house. Bucky sits on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, his head close enough to Steve that he could reach out and run his fingers through his hair. Beck sits across the floor from Bucky with the coffee table between them, and they play cards. Steve drifts in and out, but he’s aware enough at midnight to ring in the New Year.

Bucky drags Beck into a hug as she squeals and puts up a half-hearted protest. He kisses her on each cheek saying, “I love you! I love you!”

He turns towards Steve next, hovering above him where Steve’s still laid out on the sofa. The light behind his head brings out the red and gold in his hair, makes him look like an angel with his cheeks all pink with wine.

Steve, feverish and nearing delirium, beams at him. Wants to touch. “It’s 1939,” he says. “We made it to 1939.”

Bucky nods and leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to Steve’s forehead. He murmurs, “I love you. I love you.”


	5. Chapter 5

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Steve murmurs when he catches sight of a big billboard with his face on it. Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Steve resists the urge to cross three lanes of traffic to pull over on the side of the highway to better gape at it.

They're getting closer to DC now, and Steve thought he was prepared to handle this day, but he was not expecting to be the subject of a coming soon exhibit at the America History Museum.

"Aw, you look so handsome," Rachel says from the passenger seat.

"Stop." Steve blushes. The billboard shouldn’t be all that surprising. He’s seen more of the legacy of Captain America now, all the propaganda and the comics, political slogans using his image to convince people of things completely opposite to Steve’s own beliefs. Like whatever the hell happened with McCarthy and The Cold War. Captain America has always been bigger than him, and in this century it’s taken on an enormity he never could of imagined.

He’s billboard sized now, exhibit at the Smithsonian sized, even.

Instead of pulling over to stare at it, he slams on the gas and swerves around the car in front of him that has no business being in the fast lane.

“Steven!” Rachel scolds. This is the third time since they’ve left that his driving style has had her clutching her heart, claiming to be too young to die and demanding Steve “drive like a reasonable, responsible adult."

Bucky had a similar complaint that time Steve crashed a jeep somewhere in Poland.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. “Never did much driving outside a warzone.”

“The Barnes owned a trucking company,” Rachel replies, frowning at him.

“The exhaust made me cough and my feet had a hard time reaching the pedals.”

Rachel, delightful old broad that she is, laughs at him. “Shoulda taken the train,” she says. “Do you even have a license? Did anyone ever even teach you how? Shoulda taken the train. But then you would’ve missed your appointment and we can’t have that.”

Sighing, Steve slows down. Steve slows _way_ down.

He would’ve much preferred to miss his appointment, the second one SHIELDs forced him into in as many weeks. Apparently, in the 21st century, psychiatry does not mean _weakness_ and the possibility of electroshock. It is, in fact, a requirement for maintaining a working relationship with SHEILD, and Steve might’ve told Director Fury _no_ not all that long ago, but he’s not willing to cut ties completely with the organization Peggy built.

Rachel likes to rant about the lingering stigma of mental illness with the topic of his mandated therapy comes up, which is fine, but Steve still doesn't understand how they expect him to trust this stranger who refers to The Great Depression as _The Good Old Days_. When Steve mentioned this, Rebecca muttered darkly under her breath and then offered to find him “a nice gay shrink” instead.

Somehow, he’s managing to Captain America his way through the whole thing, but really he’d prefer to miss all future therapy appointments.

Today, the good doctor gently asked him about Peggy, after he told her about his plans for the rest of the weekend, and he didn’t know what to say.

"They opened the first one years ago," Rachel says after a few minutes of silence and slow driving. It takes him a moment to figure out what she’s talking about. "On the thirtieth anniversary of the plane crash. It was all propaganda, the whole thing. But they flew in Peggy and the commandos so we had a party. Hannah and Hank even showed up, God rest their souls."

"Wow," Steve says. Just when he thinks the future can't get any stranger.

One the second night he spent at the girls’ apartment, they cracked open the photo albums. In those pages he found Peggy’s face, with the occasional appearance by a Howling Commando. It was a shock, to see the photographic evidence that the two very separate spheres of his life came together after he was dead. The war and Brooklyn, right there in photographs spanning decades.

They all met at his funeral, apparently. Rachel still goes down to visit Peggy in DC once a month. Ain’t that a trip.

"They called Beck and I about being interviewed for this new one," Rachel says. "Thought for sure they'd be all over you for it, too."

Steve vaguely recalls a SHIELD PR person mentioning something about a museum, but when he said no, no way, absolutely _not,_ he sorta assumed the exhibit wouldn't happen at all.

A foolish notion. He's not had any control over his own story, his own image, his own body since 1942. Why would 2012 be any different?

"Yeah, I'm not gonna do that. Not for a hundred bucks."

"A hundred bucks isn’t all that much these days," Rachel says, smirking at him.

Steve sighs. "Not for a million bucks," he corrects.

"Better," Rachel says, nodding her approval. "Very modern."

* * *

 

Steve fell very much in awe of Agent Peggy Carter the moment she punched that disrespectful recruit right in the mug. He was still starry-eyed over her, nearly a year later, when she defied Colonel Phillips and got Steve behind enemy lines, seemingly without any effort at all.

She taught him how to fight. Taught him how to lead, and he learned so much just by watching her pour over maps, her mind the quickest and most strategic in the room. She got things days before he got things, even with his serum enhanced quick thinking.

She became so important so quickly. He came to love her, so quickly, but he never got around to figuring out what that love would look like. Loving Peggy was not like loving Bucky - vital, so wrapped with Steve's very soul that he thinks he'd be a completely different person, if he didn't grow up loving Bucky - and it was not like loving Rachel - comfortable, easy, so solid and so steady, like having a family again.

Peggy was something else, but he never managed to figure out what loving her would mean for them.

"How long have I been telling you to find a girl you could actually love, huh?" Bucky would say, in the few months they spent training as a unit after the rescue but before their first official mission. His voice was steady but his hands shook. "You're a miracle, Steve. A goddamn national hero. They made you that way, and when this fucking war is over they ain't just gonna let you go. Someday, you're going to be the president or something, and you'll need a wife. A _real_ wife. That's just how its gonna be. Why not Carter? Why not someone who you could actually love back?"

Even if all that was true, what ever he thought the end of the war would bring back then, whatever his love for Peggy might end up looking like, he refused to leave Bucky behind.

So on nights when they were at headquarters somewhere, when Steve and Peggy ended up alone after planning out some elaborate mission, the lantern light low and Peggy so beautiful his chest ached, Steve would pull back when Peggy got quiet and close. He'd clear his throat and say good night. He'd crawl into Bucky's cot, if they were lucky enough to be sleeping behind a door with a lock, and he'd silently promise all over again not to leave Bucky behind, no matter what. He'd promise not to let Bucky go.

A promise broken in a blink of an eye on the side of a train.

Steve was gonna figure it all out, after the war. Instead, he broke a promise to Bucky, gave Peggy a first kiss that felt like a goodbye kiss before he even got on that plane, and indulged in a fantasy over the radio, planning a date that they both knew would never happen, talking about one possibility for the end of the war, right at the moment it was all going to be over for Steve.

Except it wasn't over.

Now he's sitting in a car, gripping the steering wheel of this 21st century SUV. He never figured out what his love for Peggy would mean, what they'd do with it, but its the 21st century and it doesn't really matter. They lost out on the millions of possibilities for a future in each others lives while Steve was frozen and Peggy was building SHEILD.

“Rachel,” he says. “I had no idea what I was doing about Peggy, during the war.”

“Bubbeleh,” Rachel murmurs, her hand resting on his forearm. “You never have any idea what you’re doing, but manage alright anyhow.”

“I’m ready,” he says. It is, as it usually is, a lie, but he gets out of the car anyway.

* * *

Rachel goes into Peggy's room alone first, only because Steve's working on remembering how to breathe properly in the hall.

The place is nice, an older stone house that's been converted into a care facility for a handful of seniors. There's a garden and an entertainment room and Rachel confesses she wouldn't mind moving into a place like this, but Beck would throw a fit.

The place is nice, but it still smells like a hospital and Steve hates it on principal.

After fifteen minutes a nurse stops by to check on Peggy. Her eyes pop out of her head when she gets a good look at him, but she makes no comment as she slides past him into the room. A few minutes later she reappears.

"She's having a good day today," she says. "She remembers that they found you in the ice and that you’re back. They're both asking for you."

Steve takes a deep breath and enters Peggy's room. He makes it a couple feet inside, the nurse closing the door behind him, but he freezes when he gets a look at Peggy. She’s propped up in a bed by the window, Rachel in a chair at her side, the both of them smiling as wide as they did in the 40s.

"Hi," he says, reaching up to brush aside his bangs even through his hair's been too short to do that since SHIELD cut it a week ago.

He had to be presentable when he gave his interviews and shook hands with politicians for the cameras.

"Steve," Peggy says. He's unprepared for how thin and raspy her voice is.

"Hi," he says again.

Peggy chuckles. "He always was rubbish at talking to women," she tells Rachel.

"He always talked to me just fine," Rachel muses. "Actually, no. Before we became friends he was just _awful_."

"Oh, now you've offended him," Peggy says. "Look at those big eyes. Like a puppy."

Rachel laughs and a whole different life flashes before Steve's eyes, one where they all came home safe and Peggy was absorbed into the little family they’d managed to cobble together before the war, her and Rachel constantly pairing up to tease him.

Steve shakes it off, tries not to be so goddamn sad, not when they are both right here in front of him, beaming.

"You two make quite the pair, don't you?" he says, managing a real smile.

"You always did have good taste, darling," Peggy says. "Now come here."

Steve obeys, cradling Peggy's liver spotted hands in his and trying not to cry.

"You're late," Peggy says.

Steve lets out a laugh that turns into a sob. "Sorry bout that. I got held up."

Peggy smiles sadly and reaches out to pet his hair.

On the other side of the bed, Rachel excuses herself, giving Steve a few moments alone with Peggy.

"I missed you," she whispers. "So much."

* * *

 

Peggy talks in circles, all subjects winding back around to, “Oh, Steve. You’re alive. You’re alive. It’s been so long. A lifetime.”   He holds her hand and kisses her knuckles and smiles around the tears in his eyes.

It’s so painfully good to see her, and so terribly sad to watch her blink in confusion, wrinkled brow furrowed and mouth downturned as she struggles to understand, every few minutes, how it’s possible that he’s sitting next to her bed, holding her hand in 2012.

She tells him about her family, her children, her grandchildren. She tells him about Howard Stark and the origins of SHIELD. Rachel comes back, and the two of them gleefully tell him stories of the reunions they had every couple years with the Howlies that leave him in stiches.

He stops laughing abruptly, when Peggy sighs and points at him, saying, “Look, Rachel. That nurse looks _just_ like Steve.”

Steve clenches his jaw and Rachel replies, matter of fact and frank as anything. “That’s because he _is_ Steve, Peggy. He’s back now. Was asleep under that ice this whole time.”

“I know that, darling,” Peggy scolds, like Rachel is the one with the lapse in memory. “I’ve known that since we saw the footage of him in New York with the aliens. You did very well with the aliens, Steve.”

“Thanks, Peg.”

They eat lunch and Peggy forgets, thinks they’re back in the war for a terrifying minute, and then she launches right into a story, telling him about the time they took a drunk Dum Dum out in The Village that Steve really struggles to get his head around.

“Wait,” he says. “You took Dugan to a queer bar? _Dugan_?”

“He was quite the smash with the fellas,” Rachel says, smiling. “All the commandos knew that me and Beck weren’t cousins at that point. He wanted to go out with us so we took him out.”

“People thought you were _cousins_?”

“A convenient explanation for why we were living together,” Rachel says, waving off Steve’s shock. “The point is, that was an excellent night.”

“An _excellent_ night,” Peggy agrees.

And then she talks to him about Bucky. Not just about Bucky, but about him and Bucky, specifically.

He’s known for weeks now, that the girls’ became friends with Peggy, but he never considered what that friendship would mean, never thought about the details of their lives that they shared with each other.

Steve and Bucky, they were a pretty big part of Rachel’s life for a minute there. Of course this is something Rachel would’ve shared with her friend. They were dead, after all, and it was perfectly reasonable for Rachel to share this.

“You _told_ her?” he hisses at Rachel anyway. She rolls her eyes at him as he scowls at her, before Steve realizes there’s another option for How Peggy Found Out. “Or did you figure it out during the war?” he asks Peggy. This option is worse, somehow.

“I _almost_ did,” Peggy says, her gaze very far away. “I certainly thought there was someone else, a reason that we never actually acted on anything, a reason we did not seize the opportunity and go for it, on one of those nights we ended up alone. Maybe I’d’ve gotten it, if I was allowing myself to think of such things in those days. But as it were, I had to be told and when Rachel finally convinced Rebecca to let her talk to me about the two of you, I was not surprised.”

Steve lets out a big breath. “Oh, boy.”

And then Peggy goes on, to say even more shocking, amazing things.

“I loved a girl, once,” she muses. “That was you’re doing, darling. You made me brave, you and Bucky. Before you, I refused to even think about that part of myself, even think about the possibility of it, but you made me brave. Even when you were gone, you made me so brave.”

Steve’s too stunned to say anything besides, “Oh, wow,” but by the time they leave after dinner, when Peggy’s getting more confused as she gets more tired, Steve’s just glad he managed to returned the favor and make her brave.

For the whole of the war, it was the other way around. Peggy always made him so brave.

* * *

**1939**

Steve stumbles home well after two on the night Rachel turns seventeen and walks directly into the sofa. The legs screech against the wood floor, and Steve winces at the noise, glancing through the kitchen at their closed bedroom door. For a few moments he holds his breath, but it doesn’t look like he woke up Bucky.

If Bucky’s even _here_.

For the last week, Steve’s been taking every job to come his way, trying to take advantage of a rare healthy spell this deep into winter. He’s squirrelling away a little extra for when he inevitably gets too sick again to pull his weight around here, once more depending on Bucky to work and feed them and nurse him back to health.

His schedule seems to be the opposite of Bucky’s these days, with Bucky leaving early to get to the refinery as usual and Steve going to the bar late, working on a whole slew of commissions for blue drawings he’s been getting lately. By the time Steve gets back home, Bucky’s asleep, only waking enough to mutter reminders at Steve to eat his dinner before clonking out again.

For all Steve knows Bucky’s got big plans tonight, the kind of plans that keep him out all night, only to return home in the morning with his hair a mess, unable to look Steve in the eye.

It was a good night. Steve laughed and drank, thrilled to be next to Rachel who’s finally old enough to be in the bar all night, surrounded by people like him, but his buoyant mood sours now as he stews over Bucky’s possible plans for the evening.

With more force than necessary, Steve kicks off his shoes. One hits the wall with a dull thud. The next nearly takes out a floor lamp. Steve freezes, watching with wide eyes as the old thing – his mother’s – wobbles precariously before somehow finding its feet and staying upright.

Steve breathes out, relaxing for a moment.

“Steve?”

And he tenses up all over again at the sound of Bucky’s sleepy mumble. He turns on his heel, watching Bucky rub his eyes in the doorway to their bedroom. He’s just a shadow, the light in the living room not really reaching him through the dark kitchen, but he’s still so goddamn beautiful.

Steve wants to kiss him again. Steve wants to press his forehead into Bucky’s chest and just live there. Steve wants another drink, or eight.

“Sorry,” Steve mutters. It’s obvious just by that one word that he’s had a few too many and in the doorway Bucky stands up a little straighter. “Didn’t want to wake you. Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Where else would I be, huh?”

Steve just shrugs, looking anywhere but at Bucky.

“Where you been?” Bucky asks when it becomes clear Steve’s got nothing more to say.

Steve just shrugs again. He’s been lying to Bucky about where he’s been spending a good chunk of his time for _months_ and he sees absolutely no reason to start telling the truth now. Steve didn’t exactly set out to lie to Bucky, and he hasn’t exactly told him anything untrue, but he’s left out enough that he can’t deny that he’s lying now.

For the first time he can remember, he’s lying to his best friend, and doing it consistently and knowingly, too.

“Oh, you know,” says Steve, dumping his coat on the sofa. He stumbles towards Bucky, moving past him into the bedroom as he slips his suspenders off his shoulders.

“No.” Bucky, stops Steve with a hand on his shoulder. His thumb slots into place under Steve’s collarbone and Steve closes his eyes. They’re so close, smashed in the doorway together. “I don’t know where you’ve been. That’s why I asked.”

Bucky’s so close and stretching up to kiss him would be so easy. He’d do it without even thinking, if this was three years ago. But Steve’s not a grieving mess anymore and Bucky doesn’t feel the need to cheer him up that way, to distract him.

“Just the bar,” Steve whispers and even this information feels like sharing a secret. He’s told Bucky about a bar, where he plans out his WPA pieces and people find him for commissions.

He’s just left out some critical details.

“You don’t usually go there at night,” Bucky whispers back. His thumb moves, pushing aside Steve’s shirt and finding bare skin. “Thought you might want to be home tonight. Feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Steve’s not sure when he got it in his head that Bucky’d have plans tonight. It was nothing Bucky said, nothing he even does, really. Sure, there was a stretch there when Bucky had dates with girls his ma found whenever he didn’t have work, but they’ve been few and far between for awhile now. Bucky always makes sure to tell Steve when not to expect him home.

And Steve doesn’t extend the same courtesy.

“Sorry,” he says again. “Tomorrow? Just you and me. I’ll take you to Coney Island, buy you a funnel cake.”

Steve grins up at Bucky, fully expecting him to accept the apology and grin back, finally letting Steve pass for them both to get some sleep.

Instead, he just frowns, and asks, “Did you go on your own?”

“Go where?”

“To the bar.”

Steve shrugs off Bucky’s hand and moves into the room. On his way to his bed he manages to get off his slacks. He collapses face first on the bed, the room around him spinning.

“You ain’t my only friend, Buck,” he mutters. “Been going there enough to know some folks.”

“Yeah, about that. When are you gonna take me to this bar of yours? Let me meet all these people you know that ain’t me.”

“Aw, come on, Buck,” Steve says into his pillow.

The end of his mattress dips when Bucky takes a seat. Steve groans, kicking out his foot in a half hearted attempted to get Bucky to go away and let him sleep. There’s no real force behind it and Bucky captures his ankle, wrapping his fingers around Steve’s thin bones.

“Let’s go to your bar tomorrow,” he says. “Who goes to Coney Island in February anyhow? We’ll have a few drinks. I’ll treat your friends. You can introduce me.”

Steve sits up too fast, the room around his suddenly spinning even more than it was a minute ago. His heart is hammering away in his chest and for a moment he thinks something is seriously wrong, that his healthy streak has ended abruptly with a sudden heart attack.

But no, this is simply panic.

“Why haven’t you taken me before?”

It’s too dark to see Bucky, but Steve can hear the hurt in his tone. Knows that gut-wrenching look of disappointment is clear in Bucky’s face.

“Just don’t think you’ll like it,” says Steve, sounding very small. “Is all.”

“Course I’ll like it!” Bucky snaps. “You like it so it must be a fine place.”

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“Sure I would. We’re best friends, Steve. We like the same things!”

“You hate asparagus and I think its great.”

“Steve, we ain’t sitting here at three in the AM, arguing about vegetables.”

“Bucky, come on. I’m _tried_.”

"What? Are you ashamed of me? Is that it? Am I not good enough to meet these people you've been spending so much time with?"

Steve scrambles around, turning on the lamp on his bedside table.

This man, Steve's best friend, spends his days clerking at the refinery instead of doing something he'd actually enjoy because the work is steady and Steve might be bed ridden at any minute.

He always tells Steve when not to expect him home when Steve does not return the favor.

Bucky barely speaks to his family, only sees his mother at church, refuses to even talk about his father, all because he chose Steve over them. He chose Steve over his own flesh and blood.

Bucky is charming and funny and kind, and he has a whole elaborate network of acquaintances but he never gets particularly close with anyone who so much as looks at Steve wrong. As pleasant as Bucky seems on the surface, he’s tough, too. Always willing to throw a punch if the occasion calls for it.

Bucky kissed Steve when his mother got sick, because its what Steve needed desperately in that moment. He held Steve and touched him for months after she died, because it was the only thing that brought Steve anything close to peace, even if it was just for a few, breathless moments.

Steve could never, not in a million years, be ashamed of Bucky, but he is ashamed of himself for lying. For years, he’s been so selfish with Bucky, over and over.

And he’s terrified that it's about to be the other way around, with Bucky ashamed of him.

"No," insists Steve. "No, you stupid jerk. How could I ever be ashamed of you, huh? You're perfect, okay? Nothing to be ashamed of here. It's not you. It's just— I'm just—“

"What?" whispers Bucky, his hand big and warm on Steve's shoulder. "What's wrong, Stevie?"

With a sigh, Steve flops back down, head on his pillow and staring at the ceiling. "It's a queer bar, alright? They're all queer."

Bucky's quiet for a long time and Steve's head is still spinning. He's not terrified any more, just exhausted. He just wants to sleep and pretend not to remember this conversation in the morning.

"Oh," says Bucky, making no move to get off Steve's bed.

"You can't be all that shocked," Steve mutters. "Not after all you did for me when Ma died."

"Did _for_ you?" Bucky says, blinking at him rapidly. He's talking like he's very far away, like he's looking down at Steve without actually seeing him.

"Yeah," Steve says. "I know you didn’t want it. I know you were just being a good friend when I needed a little comfort. I know it was just messing around to you, not anything other than that. But for me... well."

Bucky cocks his head to the side. "Right," he says, speaking very slowly.

"I like girls, too," Steve says staring at the ceiling. All those conversations with Rachel, where she gave his whiskey and gently encouraged him to put all this into words, are paying off now. He's said this before and he can say it now.

What's he so scared of, anyhow? Bucky's not going to leave him. Even if he hates it, even if he thinks Steve is disgusting and a pervert, he's not going to _leave_. He's proved that over and over, and Steve wouldn't insult him like that, wouldn't think so little of him, to be worried that Bucky would abandon him.

"But not just girls, okay?"

"Okay," Bucky echoes.

Steve nudges him in the thigh with his big toe. "Gotta sleep now, Buck. We can talk about in the morning, if you want to."

"Okay." But Bucky stays where he is. He doesn't move until Steve turns off the light. Then he stands slowly and shuffles his feet.

"Hey," he says from across the room. Steve drifted off and missed Bucky climbing into his own bed, but that's definitely where his voice is coming from now.

"Huh?"

"Do you got a sweetheart? At that bar? Is that why you're there so often?"

"No," Steve murmurs, so loopy with sleep and alcohol that the concept of being sweet on anyone but his best friend is amusing, hilarious even. He giggles a little into his pillow. "No, of course not."

"But... you'll tell if you do, right? Whoever it is you want to be with, you won't hide them from me, would you?"

"No more hiding," Steve says, even if that's a little bit a lie. He's never going to do what Rachel so desperately wants him to do. She takes his shoulders between her hands and shakes him a little, telling him to _just tell him already_ , but Steve can’t. He's never going to kiss Bucky again or tell him how he feels.  He’s been selfish enough with Bucky, and he’s not going to force Bucky to reject him on top of everything else.

"We'll talk in the morning," Steve says as he drifts back to sleep.

* * *

They don't talk in the morning, but it's fine.

Instead they go see a movie, because who in their right mind goes to Coney Island in February anyhow? It’s normal, almost painfully so. Bucky glances at him ever few minutes, gauging Steve’s reaction to what’s happening on screen, like he always does. It’s as if Bucky’s the one pretending to forget their conversation the night before, despite not having the excuse of excessive drunkenness.

“He hasn’t said a word about it,” he informs Rachel a few days later at the bar. “Not one word.”

Steve thought this would be the best case scenario, Bucky just going along like business as usual after Steve’s great confession, but he wants more now that its all out in the open. He wants an acknowledgement, maybe a reassurance that it’s okay, and (when he’s really dreaming big) a similar confession from Bucky and maybe even a kiss for good measure.

“Well did you tell him the part about how you’re completely gone on him?” Rachel asks. “Or the part where you want to kiss him all over?”

“ _No_.”

“You should. It sounds like he’s equally gone on you, honest. I mean who turns their back on their whole family, all that money, to go live with someone they’re not in love with,” Rachel says, waving her hands around a little as she talks.

“You don’t even know him,” Steve replies. “And you don’t get a vote on what I do.”

They don't talk about it when Steve gets home from the bar, at a reasonable hour this time, and Bucky asks, “Where you been?” to which Steve replies, “The bar.” Bucky simply hums in and acknowledgement and then starts chattering about what to make for dinner.

They don’t talk about it two weeks later, when Bucky finally drags him back to church with his family after four whole months of refusing to even look at Winnie’s letters requesting their presence. It’s always a long time between church visits, after Bucky’s mother sets him up with another girl and nothing comes with it. Bucky always gives in eventually, between Beck’s whining and Winnie’s notes, never quite willing to cut his mother out of his life the way he did with his father.

Steve starts to think its fine that they don’t talk about it, so long as Bucky keeps pulling his feet into his lap whenever they’re on the sofa, listening to the radio. Bucky does not shy away from Steve, now that he knows he’s queer, and for a while there’s relief in that.

Except he can’t quite silence the voice in the back of his head, whispering that maybe this is willful ignorance on Bucky’s part. Maybe he’s busy pretending that Steve’s normal, and maybe that’s why he’s as affectionate as always, because he’s just decided to forget about the parts of Steve he doesn’t like.

* * *

"We're taking out a pair of dames," Bucky declares the moment he gets in through the front door. It’s spring, the first real warm day this year, which means Bucky’s got his shirt sleeves rolled up and Steve’s momentarily too distracted by his forearms to reply.

“What.” Steve blinks up at Bucky, setting aside his sketchbook as Bucky comes closer to where he’s lounging on the couch. He ruffles Steve’s hair and then dances away laughing when Steve attempts to punch him in the shoulder.

“We haven’t been out with a pair of gals in a ages!” Bucky calls out over his shoulder as he starts opening cabinets and rummaging around.

They still haven’t talked about it, about what Steve said and about where Steve spends so much time when he’s not following Bucky around. Steve’s been increasingly miserable about the lack of talking about it. Still, at least while they were not talking about it, he got a reprieve from Bucky badgering him into dates.

And his reprieve is over, apparently.

A couple weeks ago after mass, Winnie introduced Bucky to some blonde broad Steve had never seen before. Steve tried to carry on a conversation with Beck about the Spanish Civil War, but mostly he watched from a distance as Bucky put on his best roughish grin. The girl laughed, but for once it looked like she was laughing at Bucky instead of with him.

Steve shoulda known she’d be trouble.

"I can get my own dates," Steve mutters as Bucky reappears, gnawing on a hunk of bread.

"With a girl, though. I know you like girls, too. You admitted it!" He points the bread in Steve’s general direction, like an accusation. “You like dames just fine.”

Well, that's almost mentioning it at least.

For the first time in months, Bucky’s finally (almost) talking about it, but this is not the circumstance Steve imagined.

Steve stares Bucky down but Bucky just stares right back, chewing on his bread. Only Bucky could make chewing look so aggressive and cranky. They glare at each other for long seconds until Bucky lets out a groan and hurls himself onto the couch, lifting Steve's feet and placing them in his lap after he gets the last of the bread in his mouth.

"Well if you can get your own dates then how come you never do?" he asks, wrapping his hands around Steve's ankles.

That's the answer, right there. Bucky does that all the time, touches him casually, without thought or reservation. He wraps his hands around Steve's ankles and Steve wants him so bad he can't breathe and that's why he doesn't get his own dates.

"Steve, you’re never going to find the right dancing partner if you never go out with girls! How're you gonna get someone to marry you if you never date them first?"

And that’s all the exact opposite of everything that Steve wants, but he's not brave like Rachel. Rachel would say "You're the right partner for me, you idiot," but Steve says, "I'll bring my own girl."

Bucky freezes, then blinks a lot. A whole slew of emotions shape his face for a moment before he settles on smirking, cocky and sure.

"Just gonna wander around asking every dame on the street until one says yes?" Bucky asks, chuckling. "Zelda's got friends. Just wait till you meet Zelda. You'll be crazy over her, pal. And a girl like that's gotta have great friends."

"No," Steve says, shaking his head. If he does this, it won't be with some friend of Bucky's girl that will take one look at him and be unable to hide her disappointment. If he's gotta watch Bucky out with a girl, he'll at least bring along someone who likes him. Who he likes back. "I know someone. She'll say yes."

Rachel, who always wants to know every little thing about Steve’s best friend, is going to fall all over herself, saying yes.

"What? No." Bucky lets out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving.

Steve bristles and turns back to the sketch in his lap. He presses his pencil too hard, leaves a mark too dark, but it's better than looking at Bucky. Not even his best friend thinks he's capable of finding someone interested in him. It rankles.

"Hey, hey," Bucky murmurs, slipping his fingers beneath Steve's socks to rub at his skin. "Not like that. Any dame would be lucky to have you. It's just that you woulda told me if there was a special gal."

“She’ll say yes,” Steve repeats.

Bucky frowns at him, his mouth a thin, grim line. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, huh? You didn’t tell me about your queer bar either. Where’d you even meet her, when you’re spending all your time at a place like that.”

Steve shrugs and pulls his feet from Bucky's lap. They spend the rest of the night not talking.

It doesn’t occur to Steve until about one in the morning, after hours of tossing and turning, that introducing Rachel and Bucky is probably a really bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy oh boy! Rachel's meeting Bucky, worlds are colliding. 
> 
> Next chapter will be up tomorrow. Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I really like this chapter, and I think you will too.  
> Big thanks to [Di](http://queerladydi.tumblr.com/) the best beta in all the land.  
> I have a [Tumblr.](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I post things there sometimes.

He's stretched out on his back, lying on the floor and _moping_.

Maybe when he first found his way back to the girls, he’d be embarrassed by his inability to do nothing but sigh and frown, but it turns out that moping is not only allowed at the Barnes home, but encouraged.

When Steve's checking in at The Tower, doing public appearances and interviews, or reluctantly agreeing to train with SHIELD, he is all positive attitude and steady confidence. He uses his Captain America voice, turns on the quick thinking, serum enhanced, strategic part of his brain, and generally acts like someone who instantly and seamlessly adjusted to the 21th century.

But here, with Rachel and Beck, moping is encouraged, so long as Steve is in a mopey mood.

"Nope," said Rachel, just this afternoon when Steve finally got home another round of meetings with politicians, another round refusing to join SHIELD with Fury, and a punishing training session with Clint and Natasha, during which Steve completely failed of learn how to shoot a arrow. "No way. Uh uh. You get that fake smile right off your face, Steven. I won't have you faking happiness in this house."

He argued for a good three minutes, saying, "I'm fine, Rachel," and, "No need to worry about me," but she just sighed and held his hand.

"It's okay that you're not okay," she whispered. "You're allowed to feel whatever you're actually feeling. In this house, there's no Captain fucking America. You're Steve Rogers here, and no one expects you to be anything other than exactly what you are."

So he let the smile fall from his face, let his posture go from strong and straight to hunched and defeated. He let himself be weak and small and so fucking sad.

Hours later, even after matzo ball soup and Charlie Chaplin’s _Modern Times_ , Steve’s still allowing himself to be sad.

"Guess what I learned today," he says from his position on the floor, where he’s stretched out at Beck’s feet.

Beck sticks her foot out, resting it again his ribs and pushing gently to get herself rocking. "Something historical?" she guesses without ever looking away from the TV. Its after three in the morning and Rachel's asleep.

Beck says she hasn't slept for more than four hours consecutively since she turned 75 and Steve doesn't like anything about sleep in the 21st century. They have soundproof walls now, and it dampens the city, makes Brooklyn unnaturally quiet.

And even during the war, he had Bucky breathing somewhere near him.

Plus, there are the dreams, painful and true ones where he lets Bucky fall, and false ones, where he saves Bucky or goes with him, which make waking up hurt that much more painful. In the morning, its like Bucky died all over again, like Steve didn't die all over again.

Rachel and Beck both sleep erratic now that they’re old as dirt. More often than not, one of them will be up when Steve’s too shaken to attempt falling back to sleep in the middle of the night.

Tonight, Beck's got on a documentary about the Civil War, of all things. Steve's been trying to catch up on history, but Beck prefers the 19th century for when she feels like relaxing. Sometimes its nice to hear about something he had some prior knowledge about, a war that had nothing to do with his war, one that took place long before the world was shaped by big bombs and super powers.

"What'd you learn today, Steve-o," Beck asks, nudging his ribs a little harder.

"That they built a wall, right through Berlin, and then they tore it down," he says. Natasha likes to tell him Soviet history like a normal person would tell ghost stories, with the lights turned low and her voice lower, building suspense with each word.

There’s been talk of getting him a history tutor, a SHIELD history tutor, and Beck doesn’t like the sound of that at all. She trusts all government agencies about as her frail old arms could throw them, and she made him promise to go over his lessons with her afterward. She’s also given him books, insisting he start with the _People’s History of the United States._

“Yup,” says Beck. “Berlin Wall. Went up, then came back down. What else?”

"That JFK was Catholic."

"Didn't I tell you that? Coulda sworn I told you that."

"Sure didn't," Steve says, wrapping his hand around her foot. Her socks are so thick, Steve can barely feel her thin little bones. "Really knocked me back, that one. A Catholic president. Can you even imagine it?"

Beck snorts. "Sure. I was there, after all.”

"Stop bragging, Rebecca," he says, tickling the arch of her foot gently.

She kicks him away and laughs.

“They shot him, though,” Steve says.

“Yeah.”

"Today, I learned the world doesn't know shit about James Buchanan Barnes," Steve whispers.

Beck stops rocking. She finally looks away from the TV where they're talking about Cold Harbor, when Grant threw wave after wave of men at the greybacks, until 7000 union were dead in a matter of minutes. But the Union still called it a victory, somehow.

"The world doesn't know shit about Steven Grant Rogers either," Beck says.

Steve sighs and goes back to looking at the ceiling.

"Hawkeye," he says reaching back out to hold her foot, "Clint, he was training with me today, and he's a fan, I guess? A Captain America fan.”

Beck grunts in response.

“Guess he grew up with the comics and his grandpa telling stories of how he served with the Howling Commandos at some camp in France. Could be true, could be nonsense. Who knows?”

“Everybody came back from Europe with a Howling Commando story. Only about a fifth of them true, far as I could tell.”

Steve sighs a little, trying not to imagine Beck getting into it with random vets who were just trying to survive coming home with a farcical Captain America story.

“The point is,” Steve continues, “Clint's a fan. And he started talking about his favorite character. It was Buck. Of _course_ it was Buck, all scrappy and the comic fucking relief. A sniper.”

“He was rather good with a gun, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. But that's what Clint called Bucky. A character. ‘My favorite charter,’ he said.”

“The world doesn’t know shit about James Buchanan Barnes,” Beck whispers. She sounds haunted, like she’s still grieving. Like she’s living with guilt like Steve is.

“And maybe if it was just a comic book that'd be okay,” Steve says. “But the character’s story is all tangled up with our real lives. I mean, it was good to hear Clint talk about him, you know? No one but you and me and Rach talks about him like he’s anything but a long gone hero. So instead of shutting Clint down, I encouraged him to keep going and he ended up telling me the story of how Bucky and I met."

" _I_ don't even remember the story of how you and Bucky met."

"Well, Rebecca, you weren’t there, after all. On account of not being born just yet."

Beck smirks. "Stop bragging."

Steve laughs a little and closes his eyes.

"How does Clint think you met my brother?"

"Guess the popular theory is that Bucky happened by some boys beating me up in an alley, and he chased him off, saved my ass."

"Well," says Beck. "That certainly happened about a thousand times over."

"Yeah," Steve says, and the memories hurt. It's as sharp as getting shot, and his very special super solider healing ain't so effective on heart break. "But it’s not how we met."

"Just tell me already, why don't yah?"

"There was an alley, and some tough guys, but I wasn't getting my lights knocked out for once," Steve says. “That was Bucky."

"Really?"

"Yeah, some Italian kids. Or maybe Russian. Don't really remember. But they were calling him... well, you remember what they used to call him. Called you that too, a time or two."

"What," says Beck voice flat. "Kike? Or mick?"

"Rebecca," Steve murmurs. It takes her a minute to relax back into her chair. "I saved him that first time. Stalked down an alley with a two by four in one hand, a broken bottle in the other, and we were still young enough that they weren't that much bigger than me. Chased um right off."

"Cowards."

“Nearly collapsed right afterward, heart palpitations or something. Bucky ended up dragging me home to my ma, so I guess history’s not far off. He did save my ass, just not from any neighborhood roughs.”

“That’s a good story.”

Steve hums his agreement

On the screen, the narrator is talking about Mary Todd Lincoln, reading letters she wrote to her husband, telling her story with her own words. If Mary Todd Lincoln were to crawl out of her grave tomorrow, miraculously alive after sleeping for centuries, would she approve of this documentary? Would she recognize herself in the character these historians are talking about? Would she feel like they got something right about her, maybe not everything, but a least a fragment that indicates the legacy she left on the world accurately reflects the life she lived?

Or would she be like Steve, completely baffled by the way he's remembered, by the way he's known?

In the thick of the war, Steve didn't have time to breathe, let alone devote brainpower to contemplating how history would remember him.

"They got it all wrong," Steve murmurs, staring at the ceiling again.

"Who now got what wrong?" asks Beck.

"My whole life, Beck. Everyone got my whole life wrong."

"Yeah."

"Did Ken Burns ever wanna do a documentary about me?"

Beck glances down at him and then picks up the remote in her lap. She pushes her glasses up her nose and then carefully presses a button, shutting off the documentary and going back to the selection menu. She's slower than Rachel at navigating this technology, but she manages to find a different documentary, this one simply titled _The War_.

"You were supposed to be a whole episode," she says, scrolling so Steve can see the title of each. "You and the commandos. Episode eight, I think. His people got in touch with Rachel's people. Happens all the time, historical types wanting to know more, but Rachel gave up on talking to them ages ago. There was a lawsuit, where Rachel and Peggy tried their damnedest to get them to stop using your face for their own agendas, but it didn't work. They said you were in the public domain. Rach got pretty hostile towards anyone asking her questions about Captain America after that."

"Huh." Steve smiles as he imagines Peggy and Rachel teaming up to defend his honor. “You still gave some of our stuff to the Smithsonian.”

“We didn’t give them anything that mattered,” Beck says. Her hands fist on the arms of her rocking chair and Steve sits up a little onto his elbow so he can look at her face easier. It’s too dark to see much, the glow of the TV reflecting off her glasses and hiding her eyes. “We didn’t give them anything that, that, that—“ She bites back a sob and then covers her eyes with her palms.

“Rebecca!” Steve sits up quickly, his head rushing with the movement. “What? What’s wrong?”

She takes a big breath, wheezes half way through, and then lowers her hands. “It’s my fault, all my fault, that history’s got your whole life wrong. Now that you’re back, I don’t know if it was the wrong thing or the right thing. But it’s certainly the selfish thing.”

“You ain’t selfish.”

Beck laughs like she’s got dust in her throat. “Course I’m selfish. I’ve been selfish with you and Bucky, for _decades_. It could of done a lot a kids like we were a lot of good, but I was terrified of your memory getting just eviscerated if they found out Captain America was queer for Bucky Barnes."

Steve shivers. He's not used to Beck saying it out loud. He's not used to Beck knowing at all.

"You know, queer is on the list of words SHIELD gave me that are not okay to say these days under no circumstances, but especially not to the press,” Steve muses.

When Beck laughs again, it sounds more amused and less bitter.

“Yeah, I laughed too, when I read it. But then I had to look all serious and patriotic because the agent working with me was staring wide-eyed like she was responsible for Captain America losing it. Wonder what she woulda done if I’d used that word to talk about myself.”

Beck snorts, and shakes her head.

"Rachel wanted to go on camera,” Beck says after a few minutes of silence. “And tell the whole story to the Ken Burns people. You and Bucky. All of it. Wanted to hand over all your letters from Bucky, all those sketchbooks full of his face. Things were better by then. We'd been married for awhile, even, and for years Rachel had been muttering about outing you. We’d been fighting about it since 1972. To help the movement, you know? If its okay that Captain America was queer then it’d be okay for everyone so scared of it, too. And with Ken Burns, I almost said yes. But I backed out at the last minute."

He struggles to imagine it, waking up in a version of the 21st century where the whole world knew about him and Bucky, where it was just another part of the Captain America legend. It's impossible to say, if it would be better or worse.

"Why?" he asks.

Beck shrugs. "There was this rule, Don't Ask Don't Tell, in the military. No open gays allowed. It's done away with now, since last year, but I thought they strip Bucky of every medal, every accommodation, and I just couldn't stand it."

"Oh," says Steve.

"It was selfish," Beck says, her voice breaking again. He scoots a little closer, resting his head against her knobby knees.

"That's okay. I'm glad you were. You're allowed to be selfish with Bucky," he insists. "I always was."

"Oh, hush," says Beck. She runs her fingers through his hair.

They stay like that for awhile. With the TV off, its so quiet and Steve drifts off a little.

"I've been writing a book.”

Steve stirs a little, and mumbles, "Thought you'd written lots of books."

"This one’s different," she says. "Its about you. I was gonna fix it, all the years of hiding, with this book. The official Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes biography."

Steve lifts his head from her knees and gapes at her.

“Its nearly done,” she continues. “Ready to be published within the year, probably. I was fully prepared to out you, before you came back from the dead.”

“Can I read it?”

“Yes. And seeing as I didn’t even know how you met my brother until tonight, I could use your help. Ever thought about writing?”

Steve blinks at her, surprised to see that she’s serious. “I didn’t finish eighth grade.”

“Eh,” Beck says.

“How about I start with just reading it first, huh?”

Despite being much more confident in his reading abilities than his writing abilities, he stares at Beck’s manuscript for three days before he opens the thing.

_End of the Line,_ says the title page.

Steve takes a deep breath and reads.

* * *

 

**1939**

Rachel is predictably late.

Whenever they agree to meet up some where besides the bar – a rare occurrence – Steve shows up half an hour _after_ the agreed upon time and he still beats Rachel by at least ten minutes. She'd probably even be late for opening up the bar in the morning, if she didn't live right above it.

Steve's been standing here for six minutes, alone with Bucky and his date, outside the diner where they'll be treating the girls to dinner before dancing.

Zelda is beautiful, with her blond curls and bedroom eyes, a dead ringer for Mae West. When they were introduced six minutes ago, she did not look at Steve as if she was relieved that she didn't have to set up one of her friends with an invalid.   She even asked him about his art straight away, somehow more interested in his answer than Bucky standing right beside her, looking annoyingly handsome.

Her knowledge of the impressionists is extensive. And about three minutes into meeting her, she got excited about Renoir and spoke to Steve with confidence about a biography she recently read on the artist, but around Bucky she seems a little shy, a little unsure. Bucky is being particularly cocky already, all charming grins and friendly touches.

Steve bites back a sigh, exhausted when they’re only six minutes in. He turns his body so he won't have to see Bucky throw an arm around Zelda's shoulders, putting his good ear away from them so he won’t have to hear Bucky’s low cadence and Zelda’s answering giggle.

They look perfect together. They _sound_ perfect together. Bucky’s ma will be thrilled.

He's scowling at the pavement and considers just calling the whole thing off, but then Rachel appears, looking beautiful.

Her dress matches her red lips again, and with those shoes her legs seem to go on for miles. There’s extra sway in her gait, and Steve clenches his jaw, deeply regretting this whole terrible plan. Bucky’s gonna think Steve paid her to be his date. It’s the only reasonable explanation for why a girl like that would agree to a date with a guy like Steve, who’s inferior genetics are so painfully obvious to anybody just walking by on the street.

Rachel's got a big grin for him, as usual. Throwing her arms around his neck when she gets close enough, she smacks a kiss onto his cheek, which is decidedly less usual.

"Hi," Steve says. His smile is strained as he pulls away.

"Oh shoot," Rachel says, sticking closer to him then she would normally. She licks her thumb and rubs at his cheek. "We haven't even had dinner and already I'm getting lipstick all over you!"

She gives him a wink, full of mischief, and Steve rolls his eyes, turning her around with a hand on her shoulder to make the introductions. He expected Bucky to be shocked by Rachel, because she's tall and beautiful and not at all like the girls who usually agree to go out with tiny little invalids like Steve.

Instead it's Steve who gets the shock because Bucky is blank. His brow his smooth, his mouth closed, not ticked up in its usual smirk or ticked down in its equally appealing pout. There’s not even a crinkle around his eyes, not even a hint of anything in them.

“Rachel,” Steve says, still intently studying Bucky’s face, searching desperately for any kind of reaction. “This is Bucky.”

"Ah, yes." Rachel extends a hand. "The famous Bucky. Stevie here has nothing but good things to say about you, mister. I’m Rachel. It's a pleasure."

"Stevie," Bucky repeats. His movements are stiff but at least he doesn’t ignore Rachel's extended hand. "Right. Hi. Good to meet you. This is Zelda."

Rachel's still got that ridiculous grin stretched across her face, but it slips a little when she gets a good look at Zelda. She's not subtle at all as she surveys Zelda from head to toe and Steve pinches Rachel's elbow, a reminder that they are not at Sully's. They’re just lucky Rachel’s mouth hasn’t fallen open with awe. She shakes Zelda's hand, and looks slightly gob smacked as she stares at Zelda, and Steve smiles, private and small and down at his shoes.

“Who’s hungry? We’ve been waiting out here long enough I think,” Bucky says, hustling them all inside. Steve shoots Bucky a glare for that little dig at Rachel, but now Bucky’s the one busy staring down at his shoes, his hand on the small of Zelda’s back.

Beside him, Rachel stifles a giggle. He holds her back so they won’t be overheard.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” Rachel demands, at the same time Steve hisses, “What the hell are you doing?”

He blinks at her before he realizes that Rachel only knows _James_. He grown to trust her, these last few months, but he’s still been saying James instead of Bucky.

“It’s a nickname. Do you know how many fellas named James are running around this city? He goes by Bucky.”

“Huh,” Rachel says.

“I didn’t tell you cuz, _well_. You know why. I didn’t even tell you my last name until last month!”

“Steve, its fine. I like Bucky. It’s a great name. Shouldn’t we go in before they catch us out here yelling at each other?”

He grabs her elbow again, yanking her back when she tries to move towards the door. She sighs down at him, disconcertingly tall in her pumps.

“What?” Rachel says. She flutters her eyelashes and smiles, completely failing to look innocent.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demands again.

“I’m just going on a date with my dear friend Steve and his dear friend Bucky and Bucky’s absolutely stunning friend Zelda.”

“Rachel.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You called me _Stevie_.”

“Huh, you know what. I sure did. Doesn’t Bucky call you that? Like a nickname or something?”

He deeply regrets telling her anything, ever.

“And you kissed my cheek.”

“I kiss your cheek all the time.”

“You do not!   What’s the game here, Rach?”

Rachel sighs. “I’ve got a theory.”

“Oh boy,” Steve says, bracing himself for the worst.

“My theory,” she whispers in his ear, “is that your best pal Bucky wants you the exact way you want him and I’m going to prove it by making him insanely jealous.”

“No. Rachel! No.” Steve groans as Rachel drags him inside, suddenly reminded with painful clarity just why he’s spent the last year not introducing them.

* * *

 

“You look like a young Mae West,” Rachel says after they put their order in. Zelda’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and the two of them proceed to gush about Mae West until the food arrives.

Steve wonders if Rachel is also thinking about that fairy who was in the bar last week, who introduced himself as Mae West. His hair was bleached blond, but that’s where the similarities ended, as far as Steve could tell.  

Rachel talks with her hands a lot when she’s excited, and Zelda’s attention obviously has her real excited, so she nearly swats Steve in the face half a dozen times.

It’s a delight, to see Rachel out here in the world, interacting with people a little closer to her age, to see her interacting with a girl. At the bar she’s almost a mother, her words sharp and demanding. All the regulars respect her and dote on her, but she has no patience for any nonsense. Out here Rachel’s softer, Steve can't stop smiling at her. She’s so lively and bright.

They bicker gently about literature – even though Steve knows for a fact Rachel doesn’t read much, despite all the novels Sully’s constantly dumping in her lap – and Steve glances at Bucky, who's been almost silent since they ordered.

"So where’d you two meet?" Bucky asks, speaking too loud. He’s attempting a smile now, but it’s coming across a little flat. It’s the way he smiles at his mother when she starts talking about all the girls she just _knows_ Bucky will adore. All pinched around the edges.

Bucky’s also tapping his fingers on the tabletop with no discernable rhythm, and Steve feels a headache coming on, it pulsing unpleasantly in his temples with each finger tap.

At the interruption, Zelda shoots Bucky a glare but Rachel laughs, scooting her chair close to Steve and linking their arms together. "Oh, he chased off some guy who was giving me a hard time."

The true story is pretty much the opposite, but Rachel very obviously had the time of her life concocting and acting out some false story on the night they did meet, so he figures she's having the same fun now.

Steve smiles, shakes his head, and feels no need to contribute.

"He puffed up his chest and demanded this hoodlum _leave that nice girl alone_.” Her voice gets low and gruff as she imitates Steve and it startles a laugh out of Zelda. “You were so gallant, Steve."

"I see,” Bucky says. He does not laugh or roll his eyes or sigh, long suffering. He does not offer a story of his own, when he’s got about a hundred saving Steve in an alley stories up his sleeve.

Bucky was supposed to be shocked by Rachel. He was supposed to be shocked that she’s beautiful and charismatic, with gams that go on for days. He was supposed to delight in her wit and give Steve a thumbs-up behind her back, waggling his eyebrows and making Steve blush.

"He's my hero," Rachel says, laying her head on his shoulder and fluttering her lashes up at him.

“Stop,” says Steve, but he still laughs out loud, despite himself. She looks ridiculous, but it gets less funny when she glances at Bucky, before smirking back up at Steve. He really should figure out a way to put a stop to this madness, but Bucky’s tapping his fingers on the table again and Steve just _doesn’t_.

* * *

 

"So you think she's queer?" Rachel whispers at the dancehall. They’re leaning against the bar, sipping drinks and watching Bucky and Zelda twirl around. Bucky is probably too drunk for dancing, but he's managing alright. Zelda looks like she's having fun, anyway.

"Wouldn't get your hopes up, kid," Steve replies.

"You're a couple years older than me, Steven," Rachel scolds. "There’s no reason for you to be calling me _kid_."

Steve chuckles into his beer, feeling pretty lightheaded himself. That's Bucky's fault. With all the rounds he kept buying before he decided he was ready to dance.

"And why shouldn't I get my hopes up?" Rachel says. “There’s more of us than you think. I’ve got a good feeling, Steve. A good _feeling_.”

"Okay, okay."

“I had this same feeling about you, and that worked out.”

Steve grins. “That it did.”

"I've got a good feeling about Bucky too," she says, slipping her arms around his neck and bringing their faces close. Steve gets his hands on her shoulders and gently pushes her back.

"You do, do you?" he says.

She bites her lip and nods. "He's staring right now. I’m going to make him jealous if it _kills_ me. Should we kiss a little, do you think?"

"Stop," Steve says, blushing hot and wiggling out of her grasp. "No. Absolutely _not_."

“Maybe he really is jealous, and he’s just doing a good job hiding it. Is he the type to hide stuff?”

Steve frowns at her, realizing that to Rachel, nothing seems the least bit strange about Bucky tonight. To her, and to Zelda, Bucky’s been nothing but polite and engaged. Sure, he’s not nearly as charming and talkative as he usually is, but how would the girls know that something’s off about his smile? They barely know him at all.

“He’s not jealous,” Steve murmurs, watching Bucky dance. He’s doing a fine job of that, too.

Bucky’s something all right, but it sure ain’t jealous.

"No, I don’t believe it. He adores you. He looks at you all starry-eyed. Don’t you see it? What, are you _blind_?" she demands, stomping her foot.

"A little bit, actually," Steve replies, smirking. "Yeah."

Rachel throws her head back as she laughs.

“I’ve got an astigmatism!” Steve insists. “The world’s a little blurry.”

Rachel laughs again, her hand coming to rest on Steve’s shoulder.

“Stop,” he tells her, waggling a finger at her. “Whatever you’re trying to do, it ain’t happening and I don’t like it.”

And then Bucky’s staggering up to them, no concern for his date, who jogs behind him, trying to keep up.

"It's getting late," Bucky murmurs. “Think I’m gonna call it a night, hit the hay. I’ve got an early morning.”

“What?” asks Steve. “No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You don’t know my whole life, Rogers. I’ve got things to do.”

“Things? What sorta _things_? Because the only _things_ you gotta do on a Saturday morning is sleep till noon.”

“I had fun,” Zelda says, interrupting before Bucky can reply. Steve jerks, surprised to find that they are in fact in a crowded dancehall and not actually alone. Rachel, who was turning her head back and forth with rapt attention as she followed their conversation, also jumps a little. “Steve, it was lovely to meet you. Rachel, you promised to show me some sketches of that dress you’re working on. I’m gonna hold you to it.”

Rachel nods, blushing for the first time in the history of all the time Steve’s known her.

“Bucky, you’ll walk me home?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“We’ll walk with you!” Rachel says, scrambling around to pull her jacket out from the hook underneath the bar. “It’s on the way to my place. We’ll walk with you.”

“Do you even know where she lives?” Steve hisses in Rachel’s ear. She shoots him a scowl over her shoulder, before hustling Zelda into her coat and out onto the street.

“You don’t have to cut your night short,” Bucky says as they follow. “Seems to be going pretty damn good.”

“It’s fine.”

“Seriously, you should just take her somewhere. Take her back to the apartment. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Steve snorts. “No, that’s definitely not happening.”

“Steve, come on.”

“Leave it, Bucky.”

Bucky sighs. “You should marry this girl,” he mutters, popping the collar of his coat up to protect the back of his neck from the chill in the air. The days are warm, now, and they feel like spring, but the nights haven’t caught up yet.

Zelda and Rachel, it turns out, live in opposite directions, but Rachel absolutely insists that they all go together, first to Zelda’s and then to Rachel’s.   Rachel hooks her arm into Zelda’s, walking at a brisk pace. When she glares at Steve over her shoulder again, Steve gets the message and hangs back with Bucky.

Zelda lives with an elderly great aunt, in a bigger house that’s fallen into disrepair in recent years. It’s got four wooden porch steps that creak and shudder when Zelda gets a foot on the bottom one.

"It was really great to meet you." Zelda squeezes Rachel's arm. And Rachel beams. "Really, Rachel. I mean it. It’s harder than you’d think, making friends in the big city.”

“Yes. I mean, yeah. Me too.”

“You’ll read that book I mentioned?”

“Of course.”

"Good.” She squeezes Rachel’s arm again and turns. Zelda's halfway up the front steps before she remembers Bucky, loitering nearby. "Bye, Bucky," she says, with a smile and a wave.

When Zelda closes the door behind her, Rachel spins on her heel and gives Steve an extremely significant look. _“See!”_ she seems to say with her eyebrows. _“How gay was that?”_

On the way to Rachel's, Bucky lags behind like he’s working hard to give Steve a little privacy. If this was a real date, Steve might even appreciate the gesture. Instead he spends the whole walk back with Rachel on his arm, gushing in his ear about Zelda.

He glances over his shoulder ever few minutes to check on Bucky, because he can't help it. Even with the moon out and the sky relatively cloudless for this time of year, Steve can’t make out the expression on his face.

"You boys want to come in for a drink," she says, thumbing over her shoulder at Sully's. From here, it just looks like any old bar. A little beat. The noise of the crowd just reaching them on the sidewalk. There are men standing around in groups, smoking, but they look normal. Just guys hanging around, enjoying one of the first nights of spring.

Steve knows inside it will be an entirely different story.

" _No_ ," says Steve, glaring at her. Bucky does not need another drink and Steve honestly has no idea how he'd react to suddenly finding himself in a queer bar. Steve doesn't know if his heart could take it, if Bucky got into Sully's and was horrified, disgusted, _hateful_.

"This is where you live?" Bucky asks, frowning.

"There's an apartment upstairs," Rachel replies. "It's just me and my uncle. He owns the bar."

“Huh,” says Bucky, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Well, it was good to meet you, Bucky," Rachel says.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, his voice soft and genuine. “You too. I’ll be seeing more of you, I hope.”

“Oh, you will,” she replies. Bucky’s eyes pop out of her head a little when Rachel abruptly pulls him into a hug, but he relaxes slightly as he pats her on the back, watching Steve over her shoulder. “I’m so glad I got to meet you,” Rachel says as she pulls away.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Steve. “You already mentioned that.”

Grinning a little, Rachel rolls her eyes and smacks him gently on the shoulder. “Go to bed, bubbeleh,” she says as she walks towards the bar. “It’s past your bedtime!”

Steve and Bucky watch her cross the street. She stops to chat with the men out front and Steve thinks he might recognize Raul and Peter, but it’s hard to say from this distance.

“You should go give her a proper goodbye,” Bucky says. “Walk her to the door of the apartment upstairs or something. I’ll wait for you out here.”

“That goodbye was fine by me.”

“Did she call you _bubbeleh_?”

“Yeah? So?”

“My _grandmother_ calls me that.”

“That sounds about right.”

Bucky sighs, like he’s a moment away from calling Steve hopeless. Instead he just claps a hand on his shoulder and says, "Lets get you home, Stevie.”

For three whole blocks, Bucky's hand stays on his shoulder and they both stay silent. And against his better judgment, against the lesson Steve's learned every time Bucky got him off and then went away, he hopes. Damn Rachel, and her infectious hoping.

Bucky wasn’t jealous tonight, but he was certainly something. Sad, maybe. Resigned. Bucky was _something_ and it makes Steve hope.

"It's not like that, you know," he says. "With me and Rachel."

Bucky's fingers grip tight on his shoulder before letting go entirely. He doesn't say anything.

"She's a friend," Steve continues. "A good friend.”

“Really?” And now he looks hurt, with a side of angry. “How long have you known her without telling me?”

“About a year,” Steve confesses.

“Wow.”

“She’s really just my friend.”

"Whatever you say, pal." Bucky sneers.

"I'm serious!" Steve insists, looking up at Bucky, annoyed when Bucky won't look down at him.

"That girl is wild for you," Bucky says. "You should marry her tomorrow."

"Bucky." Steve tugs on Bucky's wrist until he stops walking. He turns to face Steve, sighing like its some big inconvenience. Sighing as if Steve is some big inconvenience. "She's just my friend and it’s gonna stay that way."

"Well that’s just _stupid_. You’re just stupid if you don’t go for it.”

“I guess I’m stupid then cuz it ain’t gonna happen!”

Bucky scoffs and starts stomping away, going so quick Steve has to run to catch him again.

"Will you slow down!" Steve demands as he starts to wheeze.

Bucky stops immediately, murmuring apologizes and rubbing Steve back until breathing gets as easy as it usually is. They start walking again. Steve gathers his courage, resolves to be brave like Rachel.

"She was testing a theory, okay?" Steve confesses.

"What theory?" Bucky asks.

"That's her business. But it was nothing. I promise."

"You should just marry her, Steve," he says.

"I don't go around marrying my friends."

"Never seen you like that," Bucky says. "You're so comfortable around her. Relaxed. And you ain't comfortable around anybody."

"I'm comfortable around you."

Bucky just clenches his jaw.

"Why were you so quiet tonight, Buck?"

"I was fine."

"You weren't."

"Just tired, Steve. Nothing was wrong."

"No, you barely spoke all night. You didn’t crack a single joke or tell a single story, and you’re always telling stories. You basically ignored Zelda when we walked her home, didn't even try to give he a proper goodbye. Need I go on?"

Bucky shakes his head and rushes the last block to their apartment, fumbling with his keys so he doesn't have to look at or speak to Steve. Steve follows Bucky up the stairs, dejected.

He feels his hangover coming on. Already his head aches and the beer ain’t sitting right in his stomach, maybe stirring up his ulcers or something worse. He's planning on giving up and just going to bed, but then he thinks of what he'll have to tell Rachel next time he's at Sully's.

The thought of confessing that he let them get so close to this _thing_ that's been hanging between them for a years without saying anything, well, its just too shameful to contemplate.

So, as he pulls the door to their place shut behind them and locks it, he channels a little of Rachel's courage.

"She was trying to make you jealous. Jealous over me, I mean."

Bucky's eyes go wide and he looks terrified, but he recovers quickly, his expression rearranging into one of amused confusion. "Get out. That dame is nutty."

"She’s not nutty. Although she is pretty queer.”

Everything just sorta hangs for a second, Bucky halfway through kicking off his shoes, Steve still with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Despite Rachel yammering at him for weeks now – “You can tell him about me. Tell him all about me. Bring him in for a drink, why don’t yah? Hey, and while you’re at him, tell him to bring any lesbians he knows in, too.” “He doesn’t know any lesbians.” “You never know, Steve. We’re everywhere. I’m sure of it.” – Steve never really intended to tell Bucky, and certainly not like this.

“Look,” he says, peeling his coat off his shoulders just for something to do with his hands. He hangs it up slowly, deliberately, not looking at Bucky. “She’s my friend. That’s mostly who I’m hanging out with, when I’m hanging around the bar. And I’ve told her stuff, about me and you. How we used to be. She’s got this idea in her head, that you’re hung up on me, like I’m hung up on you, even though I’ve told her a hundred times it wasn’t like that for you. It was just fooling around a little. But she had this idea in her head and she knows I’m gone on you and she wanted to make you jealous. So, bottom line is, we ain’t getting married.”

Taking a deep breath, he peaks up at Bucky, who looks just about as pale and horrified as Steve thought he would look.

"Steve.” Bucky swallows. Steve watches his throat work and has to look away. "I didn't know— I'm sorry, I— It’s not—"

"It's okay," Steve interrupts because he can’t bear to hear the rest. He can’t bear the rejection. He wants to get to the part in the morning, where they go back to not talking about it. “I set her straight at the dancehall. If you ever do end up spending time with her again, she won’t act like that.”

Bucky stares at him for so long the silence starts to get to him.

"I'm going to sleep," Steve announces. He kicks off his shoes and loosens his tie and then just falls onto his mattress, fully clothed. He pulls his blanket up over his head and tries to calm his breath, his heart rate. The apartment stays too quiet. At some point Bucky turns off the lights, but Steve never hears the familiar squeak of springs of the bed only a couple feet from his. He falls asleep before Bucky so much as moves.

* * *

 

In the morning, Steve wakes up when Bucky gets up. He's doing his best to be quiet, but their bedroom door creaks, and after a sleepless night spent fretting over Bucky and trying to get his back comfortable, that’s enough to rouse him. Steve gets his eyes open in time to see Bucky slip out of the room.

More than the lingering aftermath of too much booze last night, he's sick with worry over what Bucky's gonna do now. For long months, they didn't talk about it and that was fine. Nothing had changed. They were still Bucky and Steve. Surely, the foolish decision to let Rachel within ten feet of Bucky won’t be enough to change that?

A few minutes later, Bucky comes back. Steve didn't expect him to reappear and doesn't have the time to even pretend to be sleeping.

"Hey," Bucky says when he catches Steve with his eyes open. "How’s your back?”

“Fine.”

Bucky purses his lips as he frowns, and says, “I made coffee."

"Thanks." Steve sits up on his elbows. Bucky comes closer, but instead of handing over one of the two mugs in his hands, he sets them both on the floor. He sits on the edge of Steve's bed, facing away.

Steve studies the tense line of his shoulders, his perfectly straight spine that Steve used to envy so much. Steve fists his hands in his sheet to keep himself from reaching out to touch and lies back down.

"Buck?" he whispers.

In response, Bucky sighs, and then he lies down, too, stretching out on his side and facing away. Steve should give him space, should push his back to the wall and give Bucky room, but he stays where he is. This is the first time he’s had Bucky in his bed in years, and Steve stays where he is.

"It wasn't _for_ you," Bucky mumbles.

"Huh?"

"You think how we were after your ma. You think I made some big sacrifice for you, since you're my best pal in the world. Or, _what_? You think you were just convenient, an easy way to get off?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve whispers. He brings his knees to his chest, curling up in a tight little ball.

Bucky huffs and it gets even harder to keep from touching him. “It _does_ ,” he insists. “It does matter, but you’ve been thinking all this time that it was just you, that you were alone in feeling about me how you’re supposed to feel for a girl, so you went off and made this life without me, started hanging out in a queer bar and making queer friends and probably being cruised by everything with _eyes_.”

Steve reaches out then, splaying his fingers on Bucky’s back and feeling him tremble. Almost immediately, Bucky flips over to face Steve, lying on his side on the edge of the bed.

“Whoa,” says Steve, startled but the sudden movement. Then he tries to stay very still as Bucky settles with his head on Steve’s pillow, convinced that if he breathes too loud or stares too hard, it will have Bucky up and fleeing.

Bucky opens his mouth, struggling to find the words. He lets out a frustrated huff, pushes Steve’s hair off his forehead, and then scoots forward, until he’s close enough to kiss Steve.

And then he’s kissing Steve.

It’s soft, and tentative, nothing like the kisses they used to share. Those were hot and quick, secondary to getting hands down each others pants, or hard, punishing presses of lips, in between reminders to stay quiet.

Bucky kisses Steve like they’ve got time, slow and easy. And when Steve gets over his shock enough to kiss him back, Bucky relaxes against him, bit by bit. His hand stays warm on Steve’s cheek, his lips parted and tasting like coffee when Steve traces them with his tongue.

When Bucky groans, it sounds like relief.

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s neck, his thumb brushing his Adams apple, but when he gets greedy after a few minutes, tugging him closer, Bucky presses a closed mouthed kiss to the corner of Steve’s lips and pulls back with a sigh.

“You’re fucking everything up, you know that?” Bucky whispers.

Steve hums back and stretches up for another kiss. Bucky’s obviously dead wrong, because this is not fucking anything up. This is perfect.

“Steve,” Bucky says.

“We shoulda never stopped doing this, once we moved outta your parents place. That was a real bone head move on our part, Buck.”

“We never did anything quite like this.”

“Yeah, imagine everything we could’ve done by now, if we didn’t stop. You should hear the fellas at the bar talk. There’s so much we could do. I’ve got ideas. I’ve got _plans_. There’s so much we could’ve been doing, if we kept it up after we left your parents.”

"Steve.” Bucky sits up a little and frowns.   “We were moving around all the time, staying in flop houses or rooms with six other guys. Or the Gilman's attic! You would’ve got us _arrested_."

Bucky lets himself be kissed a bit more. “Arrested,” he mutters against Steve’s mouth. “ _Arrested_ , Steve.”

“Bucky, we’ve been in this place for two years now! That’s a helluva lotta time wasted.”

"Maybe," Bucky says, shrugging. "I dunno. Figured it was a good thing we stopped. We couldn't go on like that forever, best to be done with it young and start trying to find someone to marry."

"Oh," Steve says, scooting away. "How's that going for you?"

"Terrible," says Bucky. "I'm tired of it."

"Yeah?"

"Exhausted,” Bucky says. He hides his face in Steve’s hair. “My ma ain’t ever gonna let me step foot back in her house without at least a steady, you know?”

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve says, reaching out to lay a hand on his jaw. This seems like the kind of thing he’s allowed to do now, apparently.

“No, no, I don’t want to talk about that.” Bucky turns his head to kiss the inside of Steve’s wrist. It makes him shiver. “I’m just giving you fair warning, before I kiss you some more, that this doesn’t change nothing. Someday, we’re both gonna need to get married. Someday, there’s gonna be _wives_.”

“So we’ll worry about that _someday_.” Steve gets his fingers in Bucky’s hair, tugging and insistent. “Now will you stop yammering and come here?”

Bucky sighs, acting real put upon, like Steve’s a complete nuisance, but he’s grinning, wide and bright. “Always so demanding but I guess if you insist—“

Steve kisses him again, pushing and pulling until he has Bucky just where he wants him, just where he’s wanted him for years. Laid out on his back, Steve settled on Bucky’s chest, between his legs. Against his palms, Bucky’s heart is flying in his ribcage, and Steve’s never been so happy. Bucky tastes the same as he used to, but kissing him has gotten better, somehow.

It’s so good, Steve truly believes for a minute that _someday’s_ never gonna come at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Natasha ambushes him outside the locker rooms after another morning spent training, and says, “Let me buy you lunch.”

He bites back his first instinctual, _“No, thanks,”_ and a litany of excuses to get him out of it gracefully.

His hair’s still wet, poking up in strange little spikes as it always does since PR put him in the barber seat, and Beck’s novel is burning a hole through his bag. The new agent they have training him – on every new combat style that’s developed in the last century and every new weapon – is a shade too brutal for Steve’s liking, so he’s got a bruise on his shoulder that still hasn’t gone away.

Mostly, the very last thing he’d like to do is eat lunch with anyone other than Beck and Rachel, but Natasha hasn’t been around in at least a month. It’s been long enough that her hair is straight and severe now, a bob that angles sharply towards her chin. She’s also studying him too intently, her head cocked to the side and face blank, except for something calculating happening around the eyes.

Saying no would be like admitting that he barely has the energy to leave the apartment, so he smiles blandly and nods, following her outside into the heinous spectacle that is now Times Square.

They get cold borsht and vareniki. Natasha looks at him expectantly as he takes the first bite of soup.

“My friend does it better,” Steve says when Natasha looks disappointed that he ain’t particularly surprised by food that isn’t boiled cabbage. “This’ll do though.”

Natasha laughs, all tinkling and warm for someone so controlled. The sound is so startling that Steve drips a little on his shirt.

“Have I ever heard you laugh before?” he asks, wiping at his t-shirt with his napkin.

“Have I ever heard _you_ laugh before?” Natasha replies.

“Yeah, okay. Fair enough.”

“We don’t know each other very well,” Natasha says. “Even though fighting invaders from space is quite the bonding experience.”

“Well, you’re the one who disappeared these last couple weeks. And we were so close to perfecting that move where I launch you twenty feet in the air with my shield, too.”

“Please,” she says, waving him off. “It’s closer to thirty. So who’s this friend of yours who makes a better borsht than Vanya? Could it be the infamous Rachel Barnes, fashion designer, activist, and formerly betrothed to our very own Captain America.”

Steve snorts out a laugh, and it’s the real deal.

“Look at that,” Natasha says. “Now I’ve heard you laugh. This has been quite the day of team bonding. I’m proud of us.”

“Huzzah,” he drawls, smiling down into his borsht. They eat in silence for a few lovely minutes. Steve gives up trying to figure out what Natasha’s goals are for this little outing in favor of enjoying the pretty decent soup in front of him.

“I want to meet her,” Natasha says.

“Who?”

“Your betrothed.”

“She’s not my betrothed. She was never my betrothed. I was her beard.”

He learned this phrase from one of the girls’ photo albums, the one that’s mostly newspaper clippings. There in bold, black font, he found a headline from 1975. ‘ _Fashion Icon Calls Captain America Her ‘Beard’._ There’s a picture of Rachel looking furious and beautiful, accompanied by the whole article and a block quote. “I wasn’t a woman scorned. He didn’t betray me with Agent Carter. He was my beard, for goodness sakes.”

Apparently, the thirtieth anniversary remembrance of the Valkyrie going down had the press digging into old gossip, and Rachel yelled at them when she had enough. “And that’s how I came out,” Rachel said, when she caught him gaping at the article.

“So you really knew the whole time, huh?” Natasha asks. “About her and Rebecca Barnes.”

“Well, no. I knew about her and Zelda Corrigan. Her and Beck got together later. After the war.”

“I’d like to meet both of them.”

Steve makes a noncommittal sound into his borsht. “What else would you like, huh? Why are we here?”

“You need friends your own age, Rogers,” she says. “Isn’t that and the team bonding not enough of a reason to grab a quick lunch?”

Steve leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and waits. Despite it being the middle of the day, the café is empty. They’re surrounded by suspiciously empty tables, and Natasha’s little quips about him laughing feel like she’s trying to butter him up.

“Okay,” says Natasha, sighing as she reaches for her bag and pulls out a thick file. “We’ve got a mission.”

* * *

The girls are out on the balcony when he gets home. He watches them through the glass for a moment, side by side in armchairs, facing the railing and looking out over Brooklyn.

This morning, Beck didn’t need any help getting out of bed, and her strength must’ve stayed up throughout the day because she’s only got a cane next to her now, instead of the wheelchair.

Rachel cradles a mug of something warm between her hands to help with the arthritis. Beck’s got whiskey. She puts a hand on Rachel’s shoulder and Rachel dutifully leans over, allowing Beck to kiss her cheek.

Steve smiles, but its painful and he’s got to look away.

An hour ago, in a tiny Russian café, deserted except for him and Natasha, he said yes to a mission.

He’s not joining up or willing to do everything they want him to, but this mission, he’s taking. Mostly, because Natasha explained exactly what they’ll be doing and why it will save countless lives. Also, because if he keeps saying no, what’ll he have left to do with his life?

Between the training and talking to Peggy about SHIELD and Steve’s lingering need to _serve_ , this was inevitable.

The girls ain’t gonna like it.

Steve helps himself to a beer and digs Beck’s manuscript out of his bag before joining them. He’s read it in under forty-eight hours, getting through the final chapter on the subway back from the city. Steve likes the subway. It’s as putrid and strange as its always been.

Steve also likes the final chapter more than the second to final chapter where he and Buck both died. In the last chapter, Rachel and Beck started to build a life together.

“Finished,” he announces, loud enough for even partially deaf ears to hear. Out side the context of war, Steve still ain’t quite used to his advanced hearing and lack of debilitating illness. It’s even worse when he sees the girls suffering like he used to.

Beck frowns at him as he brandishes the manuscript around his head and then drops it in her lap with a flourish.

“Finished?” Beck repeats.

“I have notes,” he says, dropping down into the chair next to her.

“Notes,” she repeats.

For a minute, Steve has a hard time looking at her. She’s doing the thing Bucky used to do so often, where he worked hard to look annoyed with Steve and then just ended up smiling anyway.  

“You know,” she says, “I’ll have to rewrite it some now that you ain’t dead. Frankly, it’s a real hassle.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving her off. “Beck, you wrote a whole chapter about my ma, about my family. Where the hell did you learn all that? Half of it I didn’t even know!”

Now Beck’s smiling for real, downing her whiskey and setting aside the glass as she rests her hands on the book on her lap. At her far side, Rachel huffs.

“She’s had that thing researched and outlined for thirty years,” Rachel mutters.

“A lot comes from my ma,” Beck replies. “She just knew stuff, from being friends with Sarah. Some was digging through old records, army, immigration, the hospital, that sort of thing. But did you know Sarah gave Ma a whole box full of letters between her and your da before she died? Ones from the war, and before that.”

“No,” Steve whispers. “No, I didn’t. Why wouldn’t she—“

Rachel throws her head back and laughs. “Steve, trust me. You don’t want to go reading all that.”

“What? _Why_?”

“They’re a tad risqué,” Rachel explains.

“They’re down right dirty,” Beck adds. “Sarah probably couldn’t bear to throw them away, but didn’t want you finding them, either.”

“Your parents loved each other very much, bubbeleh. We kept the letters safe for you.”

“Oh,” says Steve, slouching in his chair. When he started Beck’s book, he expected to have his heart torn up pretty good, reading about Bucky and how they were seen through Rebecca’s eyes. Learning so much about his own past was a delight, even if it reminded him just how much he still misses his ma, even after all these years. “She never talked about him much. I didn’t know it was like that, with them. Why wouldn’t she tell me about him? If she loved him so much?”

“Grief does funny things to people,” Beck murmurs. She exchanges a look with Rachel that Steve has no chances of comprehending.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs. He’s mostly stopped having conversations in his head with Bucky, now that he’s got Rachel and Beck right here. Still, he gets wrapped up imagining what Bucky would say if he were around to watch Steve take on missions long after their war ended.

He’d say nothing good. Probably, he’d be even more pissed than the girls are sure to be.

Beside him, Beck opens her book to the title page where she finds the first of a thousand blue post it notes. Steve is a big fan of post its, and he stuck them all over Beck’s book, commenting on parts he loves or things he’d forgotten, correcting small errors where Beck got a date or a street corner wrong, and making suggestions, for whole chapters of the story she couldn’t know about. Things that happened at bars when Rachel wasn’t around or how they were in the privacy of their own apartment, how they clung to each other during the war, but Bucky still felt so far away, even before Steve let him fall.

The first post it, stuck just below the title, simply says, “ _Ouch_.”  

“Ouch,” Beck reads, glancing up to frown at Steve. “You don’t like the title?”

“There were so many other titles being thrown around for a minute there,” Rachel says. “ _Captain America the Heterosexual and Other Great Lies.”_

_“Fuck You, Ronald Regan.”_

_“A Jew and a Catholic Walk into Wallabout Market.”_

_“Love Stories for Brooklyn Boys.”_

“Wow,” says Steve. “Those are sure something. But no, _End of the Line_ is good. Just hurts, you know. _Ouch_.”

“Ouch,” the girls echo.

Its not the time to tell them about his upcoming mission. Maybe after dinner. Maybe in the morning.

“Who the hell is Ronald Reagan?” Steve asks, when the sun starts to set.

* * *

Rachel doesn’t speak to him for two days, relenting only when he announces that he’ll be leaving in the morning. Then she cries on him for a minute, makes him swear to stay safe, and then forces him to make challah with her, even though he really should be getting a decent night sleep.

Beck just shrugs, says she trusts him, and makes him promise to work on her book with her when he gets back. Somehow, she refrains from lecturing him on American imperialism, but he’s sure she’ll have a dozen more books for him to read on the subject when he gets back.

They’re both awake to see him off in the morning, looking solemn and tired. “Don’t get blown up,” says Beck as Rachel tucks a wrapped loaf of challah into his bag.

“I won’t,” Steve promises, cracking a smile. This morning is so different from the one all those months ago when he set off to fight aliens. Now, he’s got something to come home, too.

“We love you, bubbeleh,” Rachel whispers as he slips out the front door. “Very much.”

* * *

**1939**

“ _Shit_. Ow, fuck, fuck. _Goddamn_ it.”

Steve opens one eye to see Bucky hopping around on one foot. He’s half way dressed, pants secured around his waist and chest bare. His belt hangs open, flapping around as he jumps.

Someone so absurd looking should not be half as appealing.

If Steve’s arms were a little longer, he’d reach out and drag Bucky back to bed, but he’s got no hope in catching Bucky all the way across the room without getting up himself, and he’s far to lazy for that.

He sighs into his pillow and says, “Language, Bucky. Tsk, tsk.”

“Your shit is everywhere,” Bucky continues, pointing an accusatory finger in Steve’s direction even as he bends down to rub his foot. “You messy little punk. That’s the third goddamn morning I’ve stubbed my fucking toe.”

“You kiss your ma with that mouth?”

“Not lately,” Bucky says, kicking aside the clothes piled on the floor as he pulls on a fresh undershirt. “Have been kissing you plenty. You must be rubbing off on me. I always knew you were a bad influence.”

“You come a little closer, and I’ll _influence_ you all right. I’ll influence you real good.” The effectiveness of his line is somewhat lost when he let out a big yawn at the end, but it makes Bucky laugh. The sound is too loud, disrupts the quiet of the early morning and probably their neighbors, too, but Steve does not care because Bucky’s laugh is one of his favorite sounds, no matter what time of the day.

“You’re ridiculous.” Bucky struts over as he buttons up his work shirt. Steve makes a swipe for him, but after a week of waking up this way, Bucky’s got his number and he stays just out of reach. “ _Completely_ ridiculous.”

“How’s the toe, pal?” he asks, keeping his arm stretched out as far as it will go to encourage Bucky to take just one step in his direction.

“Terrible. Throbbing. A _mess_. There’re probably gonna have to take it off, actually.”

“That’s rough, buddy. Want me to kiss it better?”

“Gross, no.” Bucky laughs again. “Seriously, if we’re gonna keep pushing the beds together, we need to figure out where to put the dresser because this room is dangerous to navigate first thing in the morning. And it don’t help that somebody leaves his stuff _everywhere_.”

“You’ve been living with me long enough, you’d think you’d be used to at this point.”

Bucky snorts. “I’m about to lose a toe over here. Do you not care? Are they gonna have to take the whole foot before you finally start to pick your stuff up?”

“Wow, I love you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and looks all bashful, finally taking a step closer as he secures his belt. Steve hooks his hand around the back of Bucky’s thigh, pulling until Bucky’s kneeling over him at the bed’s edge.

“Don’t wrinkle my shirt. Yesterday, you wrinkled my shirt.”

Bucky’s kissing him before he can even swear to do no damage to the shirt. He tastes clean, somehow managing to let Steve sleep through half his morning routine, and Steve stopped getting self-conscious over his morning breath on the third day they woke up this way.

The kiss is a greeting, an ideal way to start the day, and a promise for more, later.

Steve nips at Bucky’s lower lip and then pulls away, not wanting to be accused of making Bucky late for work, like he was on the second day they woke up like this. This morning it’s Bucky, coming back for more, opening his mouth and seeking Steve’s tongue.

Bucky’s hums against his lips. “Good _morning_ ,” he murmurs.

“Get outta here, you jerk,” Steve says, shoving him away. “You’ll be late and try to pin it on me again.”

“What’s your plan for today?” Bucky smiles down at him for a second before going to dig around in his drawers for a tie. The dresser ended up at the foot of their beds when they pushed them together a couple days ago. It’s partially blocking the door.

That’s the sort of question Bucky’s always asked him. Ever morning since they’ve been living together, Bucky’s asked him about his plans for the day, but now he gets kisses too.

“Thought I might clean up a little,” Steve replies.

At the mirror where he’s tying his tie, Steve can see the reflection of Bucky rolling his eyes.

“And maybe go to the bar. I haven’t been all week and Rachel’s probably worried. She probably thinks I’m mad at her.”

“Why would you be mad at her?”

“Well.” Steve props himself up on his elbows. He winces a little, every muscle and nerve in his back protesting his change in position. The way they’ve been going at it every night is starting to take its toll on Steve’s stupid, useless, aching body, and that’s not gonna work forever. Every time he touches Bucky, he’s still a little convinced its gonna be the last time he’s allowed to touch Bucky, and he refuses to let his crooked spine slow him down.

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice low and angry.

“I’m fine.”

“ _Steve_! We talked about this.”

“And I said I’d tell you if it got to be tii much, but its not. I’m always a little sore in the morning.”

Bucky huffs and lets it go. “About Rachel?”

“Oh, I didn’t care for the way she was carrying on when we went out last weekend. She might think I’m mad over that.”

“I tell you what,” Bucky says, giving himself a final look over in the mirror before deciding he’s presentable enough for working. He comes to sit beside Steve on their pushed together bed, his hand on Steve’s back, tracing his crooked spine. “Why don’t you lie low today. Go back to bed. Pick up your stuff. Work on that WPA piece, but only for an hour or so. Take it easy today, and then we’ll both go to the bar tonight.”

“Together?” Steve says. “You’d go with me? Like, the two of us, together?”

“I don’t really see much point in us arriving separately.”

“But, Bucky,” Steve says, clutching his hand. “They’ll all know. You get that right? They’ll look at you and us and they’ll think you’re my date.”

“Well, I hope I’m a little more than just your date. Stop fretting. I wanna see this infamous Sully’s.”

“Okay.” Steve turns away so Bucky won’t see how damn goofy his smile is.

“Great,” says Bucky, smacking a kiss on Steve’s cheek. “It’s a date.”

He pops out of bed and pulls on his jacket as he goes, pausing in the doorway to remind Steve to eat something before he gets sucked into painting.

Steve’s so thrilled that he treats himself and goes back to bed, falling asleep with his face in Bucky’s pillow.

* * *

"Well, look what the cat dragged in!" Rachel yells before Steve's all the way through the door. He grins at her and then shakes out his hair, wet from the spring storm. "Where the hell have you been? Are you mad at me? Was I too much? When we went out, was that too much? I'm sorry! You know how I can get caught up in—“

She stops talking when she catches sight of Bucky, following in right after Steve.

"Hi!" Rachel says. She's practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing a little as she stands behind the bar, smiling huge. "Arein! You're here! I'm buying you a drink. Sit, sit."

They sit, peeling off damp jackets.

"Who's getting a free drink?" Steve asks. Across the bar, Peter shifts a little and leans away from Raul. He checks out Bucky, from head to toe, and then raises an eyebrow at Steve. Steve's starting to pick up on these silent queues, reading Peter's questions in his expression, in his body language. _Is this guy safe? Is he one of us?_

"I could go for a beer," Steve continues. He reaches up to squeeze Bucky's shoulder, his hand lingering for a moment as he nods across the bar at Peter. _He's safe_ , Steve replies. _And taken._

" _Bucky_ is getting a drink," Rachel corrects. She beams at him, glares at Steve, and then goes back to beaming at Bucky. " _Bucky_ I'm happy to see. _You_ haven't been in here for decades, making me think you hated me after the double date situation, when really the whole thing worked out in your favor, huh?"

Bucky's called the last week a honeymoon. It's an accurate description and Steve might’ve been buzzing with anticipation all day over bring Bucky to the bar, but now he just wants to go home, maybe do that thing they did last night. Or that other thing they did the night before that.

He gets a little lost in his head, thinking of all the things they’ve done.

"Steve?" Bucky elbows him gently, speaking right in his good ear. He's got a glass of whiskey halfway to his lips and a look on his face like he said Steve's name more than once. On the other side of the bar, Rachel smirks.

"What? Sorry. What?"

Rachel bursts outs laughing and Bucky rolls his eyes. They both seem to know just what had Steve so distracted. He blushes scarlet and Rachel just laughs harder.

"Oh, Steve," she says when she finally manages to get a hold of herself. "Its impossible to stay mad at you."

She pours him a beer and doesn't charge him.

* * *

Despite his excitement to share this part of his life with Bucky, Steve was still a little wary about bringing him to Sully's. This place is special, and he thought Bucky might not like it, might not be comfortable, might take some time to get used to it and relax.

A more reasonable fear woulda been that everyone here would like Bucky better than him. And of course Bucky charms them all immediately, but Steve doesn't mind it. Instead he just watches Bucky joke and laugh, leaning back in his stool and smiling a private little smile.

This is what it must feel like to take out a beautiful dame. He wants to show Bucky off, to let all this pride just burst out of him, because Bucky's pretty goddamn great and he's here with Steve.

Raul bemoans the fact he never got one little kiss from Steve before he found himself a sweetheart.

Peter pulls a sketch out of his wallet, just a drunken little cartoon Steve did of the bar a month ago, but he brags to Bucky that it’ll be worth a lot of money someday when Steve’s a famous artist, like Bucky's not gotten hundreds over his lifetime.

Sully grunts at Bucky when Rachel introduces them, but he nods a little at Steve. Last fall, when Steve had only been to the bar a handful of times, Sully caught Steve frowning at a trio of fairies, all dolled up in flouncy blouses and red lips. When Sully demanded to know if Steve had a problem with a specific kind of his clientele, Steve shrugged and said, "People've been calling me a fairy for as long as I can remember. Guess it’s about time I just accept my fate, huh?" Sully got a little soft with him then, leaning over the bar and telling Steve that he doesn’t have to be anything he’s not. Sully said, "There’s no right way to be queer. There’s no _rules_. If you want to dress like a lady, or live two lives with a family back home, or if you just want to be a fella who loves another fella. It’s all _great_. You can figure it out as you go."

Sully’s looking at him like he knows that Steve’s figured it out, like he’s a fella who loves another fella. Like he's happy.

At some point, Sully shoos Rachel out from behind the bar and relieves her for the night. The three of them end up in a booth in the corner, and Steve's about to ask Bucky again if this is okay, that they're here together and every knows, but then Bucky slings an arm over Steve's shoulders, pulling him close, and that seems like the answer.

Bucky's tipsy and happy and, best of all, seems to really like Rachel.

"So we're in Harlem," Rachel says and Steve groans, hiding his face in Bucky's chest because, miraculously, that's allowed here. "So we're in Harlem!" Rachel repeats, as she is apt to do after a drink or two. "At this Drag Ball with Peter."

Bucky's eyebrows go way up. "Drag Ball? You've had this whole secret life. Who’re you really, Steve Rogers?"

Unlike that night months ago, when Steve confessed that Sully’s is a queer bar, Bucky doesn’t sound mad at it or hurt that Steve kept something from him, just delighted that he gets to hear some new story about Steve that is sure to embarrass him.

"And we stumble outta there, hanging off each other to stay upright and get home," Rachel continues.

"Oh no," says Steve. “Please don’t.”

He is ignored.

"When of course these goons appear outta no where, trying to get us to go home with them. It seems they knew about the ball and mistook me for a drag queen. Which is fine. The queens looked great. I looked great. We were a buncha good looking ladies. But then one of them decides they need to take a look up my dress to see what's going on down there for himself. I didn't like that much," Rachel says.

"You kicked him," Steve reminds her. "Right between the legs."

Bucky throws back his head when he laughs. It makes his neck look real good.

"So the guy goes down," Rachel says. "The guy goes down, as I expected, but instead of hoofing it the heck outta there, Steven here chooses instead to hurl himself at one of the guy's buddies, all furious fists and drunken yelling."

Bucky laughs again. Steve just sighs.

"Okay, that's my Steve. That's definitely him. Turns out I do know you, you completely predictable putz."

"Ha," says Rachel, raising her glass to Bucky. "Putz."

"Then what happened?" asks Bucky. His eyes are all bright and twinkling. He's so happy, so himself, here at Sully's with his arm thrown over Steve's shoulders like it belongs there.

Steve loves him so much, he's fit to burst with it.

"Well, Steve gets pummeled pretty good."

"Of course," says Bucky, nodding.

"And for a minute there, I really thought we might be done for. But then out of no where, our friend Claudette appears, like some sort of statuesque avenging angel."

"Bless that Claudette," Steve murmurs. This is a good story now, but without Claudette’s intervention he coulda gotten real hurt, coulda gotten Rachel real hurt.

"Now, Claudette is pretty tall, but not quite as broad as your average drag queen," Rachel explains. "Although, thankfully, she does have fists the sides of boulders, and she managed to free Steve without much trouble. The three of us fled the scene, but the schmucks that accosted us didn't seem to be in the shape to follow."

"Ha," says Bucky, raising his glass to Rachel. "Schmucks. You know, its usually me dragging Steve outta fights. But I'm glad Claudette got the opportunity to take a turn. All's well that ends well."

"That wasn't the end," says Steve, shuddering at the memory.

Rachel grimaces. "So when I say Claudette is our friend, she's really _Sully's_ friend, and when the three of us made it back to Brooklyn, she wouldn't just let Steve go on home. No, she had to drag us both in front of Sully to confess the whole tale."

"Rachel did not have permission to go to the Drag Ball," says Steve. Sully did a lot of yelling that night, most of it directed at Rachel, but Steve's whole life flashed before his eyes when Sully got in his face.

" _You took a sixteen year old all the way to Harlem? For a Ball? What, are you stupid or something, kid?"_ Rachel says, imitating Sully's voice. " _You coulda got yourselves arrested or worse_!"

"Wait," says Bucky, blinking rapidly. "Sixteen? You’re sixteen? Jesus, that's my kid sister’s age."

"I'm seventeen now, thank you very much.” And then, without so much as pausing, she says, “Guess who I ran into the other day."

"Who?" asks Bucky.

"Zelda," guesses Steve.

"How'd you know?" Rachel crosses her arms over her chest, pouting.

"You got that look, the one you get when you're talking about beautiful actresses. All dreamy and dopey."

"Dopey!"

"How's Zelda?" Bucky asks. He looks faintly guilty and extremely confused.

"Zelda," Rachel says, grinning wide, "is _excellent_."

"Yeah?" Steve chuckles a little. Rachel's good moods are always so damn infectious.

"Yeah."

"You gonna tell us the story or what?" Steve asks, when Rachel seems content to silently stare off, that dopey look back on her face.

"Well, like I said, I ran into her."

"You just _ran_ into her?"

"Sure," says Rachel, smirking now. "I remembered when she said her shift was ending at the hospital last weekend and I just sorta loitered around the entrance until she appeared."

"Rachel," Steve scolds. "Don't stalk the poor girl."

“Wait, why would you stalk Zelda?” Bucky asks. He stares at Rachel with his head cocked to the side for a minute, probably replying their disastrous double date in his head. His eyes go a little wide, when he finally seems to pick up on the fact that Rachel was obviously far more interested in Zelda than Steve. “ _Oh_ ,” he says and Rachel laughs.

“I’m serious about the stalking, Rachel,” Steve says, patting Bucky’s knee under the table. “Nursing is hard and the last thing she needs at the end of a long shift is you ambushing her.”

"Oh, what do you know, Steven. She was happy to see me. Real happy."

"Oh boy." Steve’s genuinely concerned that Rachel's gonna get her heart broken – or worse – over some normal girl.

"There's more of us out there then you think there are," Rachel says. She sounds far older and far wiser than she is. "And I told you I had a good feeling about Zelda."

"What," says Steve, still skeptical, "are you saying you're right about her?"

Rachel absolutely smirks at him, leaning back in her chair and waggling her eyebrows.

"Rachel!" Steve cheeks burn bright red. He'll never be used to it, the way Rachel acts so brazen and so bold.

"Wow," says Bucky, nodding his approval, looking at Rachel like he's impressed rather than scandalized.

"You really need to trust my good feelings, Steve,” Rachel says. “I’m gonna invite her to the bar.”

By the end of the night Rachel's managed to mostly convince them both that she really does have a date with Zelda. She and Buck have bonded over their mutual love of Jewish pastries, and have slurred their way through several broken renditions of what might be _Mayn shtetele Belz_. It’s difficult to say. Alcohol always turns Bucky’s typical melodic voice into caterwauling and Rachel, even under the best circumstances, can’t sing her way outta a barn.

"Come on," says Steve, somehow the steadiest on his feet. "Time to go home. I need sleep."

"Oh, is it sleep you need?" Bucky smirks up at him. It only last a moment, before Bucky’s mouth turns into a flat line as he frowns. “Wait, you do need sleep. How’s your back? You okay, pal? Let’s get you some sleep.”

Steve rolls his eyes and drags Bucky to his feet. He can feel Rachel grinning at them, but he refuses to look at her.

Steve honestly thought he'd show up here and she'd take his shoulders between her hands, shaking him around and chanting, ‘ _I told you so.’_ Instead of bragging about her wisdom, she's just happy for him. And it’s nice.

Steve helps Bucky into his coat and then slings Bucky's arm over his shoulder, bracing them as Bucky sways. Bucky leans away, mutters about standing on his own.

“My back’s fine, Bucky,” Steve assures him, pulling them close together again. “C’mere. It’s cold out. Need you to keep me warm.”

Bucky huffs, his lips hot on the shell of Steve’s good ear. “You manipulating me into hanging all over you, Rogers? Is that what this is?”

Steve beams and pulls Bucky towards the door.

"Come over for dinner tomorrow," Rachel says, holding the door open for them. "Upstairs, to the apartment. I'll make some real Jew food."

Bucky perks right up. "Mazto ball soup?"

Rachel giggles. "You haven't lived until you've had my bubbe's recipe for matzo ball soup."

"I dunno. My bubbe does all right."

Rachel smiles so wide it looks like it might hurt. "That settles it. You have to come over and compare."

"Okay," says Steve.

* * *

The walk home is one Steve’s done a hundred times in the last few months. Only now, Bucky’s with him, chattering in his ear over all the people he met and the outlandish things they said.

Nothing’s changed, much. Bucky’s making the walk back from Sully’s with him, but they still go to work and they still come home to each other. They still give each other a hard time, Bucky acting like a bit of an ass and Steve throwing his elbows into his side, trying not to laugh. At home when they sit together on the sofa, listening to the radio at night, Bucky still pulls Steve's feet into his lap and Steve still gets all mushy when Bucky drags his thumb over the sharp bones of his ankle.

The easy affection between them was always there, and it strikes Steve as they walk, with Bucky's arm still thrown over his shoulder, that they were never very good at _not_ being together.

Even when Bucky was dating his way through the daughters of Winnie's friends and Steve was lying about where he spend a good chunk of his time, there were still casual touches between them, hugs and hair ruffles and Steve's feet in Bucky's lap. Even when they weren't together the way Steve wanted to be, it felt like they were, and maybe that's why Steve never had much interested in all the attractive men parading through the bar.

"Hey, Buck?" Steve asks, glancing up to look at Bucky only to find Bucky already staring down at him.

That's a small change. Before, Bucky wouldn't look at him like that, especially not in public, and Steve’s caught him more than once, turning away quickly like he didn't want to be seen staring.

"Yeah?" Bucky murmurs. He's so close, his breath warms Steve's cheek.

"Just... thank you, I guess."

Bucky frowns, a little furrow appearing between his brows. If they were at home, he'd rub the fold away with his fingers until Bucky's smiling again. That's another small change.

"What for?" Bucky asks, suspicious.

"For coming with me to the bar," Steve blushes. He stares down at his shoes. "Sorry I didn't tell you about it for so long."

"No," says Bucky, soft and instance. "It's good that you've found a place for yourself. I'm glad you went out and found something that’s just yours."

"Well, I might've found it, but everywhere is better with you around, Buck. It’s just _better_."

Bucky presses his forehead into Steve's temple, his grip getting tighter, and Steve doesn't have to look up to know that Bucky's smiling, indulgent and fond.

Steve would get so jealous, when Bucky would grin all charming and cocky at girls, but this expression on Bucky's face is far better. It's softer, more intimate and genuine than anything Bucky gives anyone else.

“That’s why we’ve always stuck with each other, Steve,” Bucky says in his ear. “Everything is just better.”


	8. Chapter 8

Despite the roaring success of his first official mission with SHIELD – zero civilian, casualties, terrorist plot foiled, evil lair destroyed, excellent teamwork, good company with Clint and Natasha, Steve remembering what being useful feels like – he says no when the next one comes around.

That’s a big perk of not officially enlisting with SHIELD. He can still say no.

He says no, because saying yes would see him out of the country for Bucky’s ninety-fifth birthday.

No one discusses it beforehand, but when he gets back to the apartment in the morning, after his typical twenty-five mile run, Beck and Rachel are both already in the kitchen drinking coffee. They’re wearing black – unusual for Rachel, decidedly not for Beck – and they stay silent as he helps himself to a cup.

“He’s got a place with Ma, Tateh, and the twins,” Beck says. “Over at Green-Wood.”

Steve looks at his shoes and says, “Okay.”

He drives the red SUV, lifting Beck out of her wheelchair and into the passengers seat. Rachel bats away his hands when he tries to help her into the back. The drive is silent, except for Rachel’s quiet demand they stop for flowers.

Bucky is not buried under an oak tree, but a headstone there has his name. It was the first one in the family plot, Buck dying decades before his parents in the 70s and the twins in the 90s.

“I thought he had a plot at Arlington,” Steve says, his hands tightening around the handles of Beck’s wheelchair. He takes a deep breath and has to let go completely, to keep them from crumpling under his super-solidered hands.

“He does,” Rachel says.

“And so do you,” says Beck.

“It’s a whole monument, really.”

“With a replica of the shield and everything.”

“What, you didn’t go while you’ve been in DC?”

Steve shakes his head.

“You wanna go next time we visit Peggy?” Rachel asks.

After a long moment, Steve shakes his head again.

Rachel moves closer, taking his hand in hers. He rests his free hand on Beck’s shoulder and she leans forward to lay the flowers on her family’s graves.

This was a mistake. He didn’t realize that coming here would have him mourning the whole Barnes clan, not just Bucky on his birthday. Everything he’s lost is so huge, that the gaping wound left in his chest by Bucky’s absence has over powered smaller hurts. He was so busy missing Bucky, he forgot to miss everyone else, too.

Now, he misses sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with Hannah, papers spread out on the coffee table, coloring. He misses Dodgers games with Hank, listening to the kid rattle off every conceivable fact about every player. He misses Winnie’s stern frown and her strange brand of mothering, how she slipped Steve twenties even while she thought he was ruining her son’s life. He misses George, quietly talking to him about the realities of war when he’d had a little wine and never treating Steve any differently despite his fighting with Bucky.

They’re all gone, buried here beneath his feet even if Bucky isn’t.

“Do you want a minute alone, bubbeleh?”

“No,” he says. He doesn’t need to be looking at a hunk of stone with Bucky’s name caved into it to feel close with Bucky. Having conversations with him in his head can be done any old place, turns out.

“Let’s go get drunk,” says Beck.

“I can’t get drunk,” replies Steve, cracking smile.

“Let’s go try anyhow.”

* * *

In Bed-Stuy there is a bar. A tiny, dump of a thing where Steve’s met up with Clint a handful of times to watch him get drunk on IPAs or PBRs. (He’s got an elaborate beverage of choice schedule, which apparently depends on the day of the week and maybe whatever the moon is doing).

When Steve drives the girls over after the cemetery, there’s a miraculous parking spot right across the street, and Steve thinks it might be Guardian Angel Bucky looking out for them on a rough day. And then he immediately hates himself, because neither he nor Buck ever put much faith in all that.

Steve wishes his prayers now would feel less hollow. He recites the Latin, does the rosary with his eyes closed when he needs to calm down, but it feels like shouting nonsense into an abyss. It does not help.

Rachel and Beck, when they get to reminiscing about before the war, that helps, even if it’s a painful sort of healing. Like setting a bone so it will grow together right.

It's easier to talk about Bucky in the back of a dim bar. The walls are exposed brick and could use a little art. Its only Rachel and Beck’s wrinkles, and the absence of the stale smell of smoke, that date this place to 2012 instead of 1939.

“To Bucky,” Beck says, lifting a glass of whiskey. Her hands shake a little, and her breath is coming in ragged like just the strain of holding up a cheap tumbler full of mediocre whiskey is too much for her.

“To Bucky.” Rachel and Steve echo her, raising their glasses and drinking. Beck tosses it back like its water. Rachel sputters and shivers, wiping the back of her hand over her mouth. Steve drinks slow, reveling in the burn.

"He was born a century ago," he says after returning to the table with another round. Rachel gets a red wine this time, and she takes a sip immediately to cleanse her pallet of the whiskey. “Can you believe it?”

“Wasn’t just him, Steve-o,” mutters Beck. “The three of us, we’re old as dirt.”

“You’re still as beautiful as the day I met you, my treasure,” says Rachel, taking Beck’s hand. Beck leans closer for a kiss, even as she rolls her eyes.

“You hated me the day you met me.”

“Yeah, but I still thought you were one hot broad.”

That makes both Steve and Beck laugh. Something in his chest eases for a moment, until his phone lets out an obnoxious clank sound in his pocket. He holds his breath when he sees a message from Natasha.

_For the first time in many years, an old man traveled from his rural town to the city to attend a movie. After buying his ticket, he stopped at the concession stand to purchase some popcorn._

And his phone makes the clank again, vibrating and alerting him to a new message.

_Handing the attendant $5.50, he couldn't help but comment, "The last time I came to the movies, popcorn was only 15 cents."_

And a third time.

_"Well, sir," the attendant replied with a grin, "You're really going to enjoy yourself. We have sound now."_

He blinks at the screen, trying to determine if these bizarre messages are a code or a cipher, mind spinning out intricate possible scenarios that would explain these words. Maybe she’s hurt. Maybe he’ll need to rescue her. He has no idea where she is.

“It’s a joke,” he murmurs, lips twitching up as he settles on this mostly likely of explanations. “She’s texting me bad jokes.”

“Who, bubbeleh?” Rachel asks.

So he reads the bad joke, which makes Beck snort and Rachel say, “She’s not funny, but you should invite her to Thanksgiving dinner next month, anyway. Send her back an emoji.”

“A what?” he asks, hoping that Rachel will forget about that holiday invitation.

Five minutes later, Rachel’s taught him how to send delightful little pictures in his messages. Natasha gets a yellow face that’s laughing so hard it’s crying, a green dragon, and a bumblebee.

“What does that mean?” Beck asks, frowning at Steve’s phone.

“Emojis are supposed to mean something?” Steve asks, but then Natasha is messaging him back with about eight cartoon cats grinning at him.

He begrudgingly is starting to like Natasha, especially because it seems like she sent him a ridiculous old man joke, knowing its Bucky’s birthday. It all feels very intentional and extremely kind, not at all like the cold, calculating creature he imagined her to be upon their first meeting.

He still doesn’t want her anywhere near the little sanctuary he’s created with the girls in Brooklyn.

“He’d have loved this, you know.” Steve swipes through the countless other little cartoons he can send out into the ether to have them ending up on other people’s phones. “The technology. Like something outta his books. Can you imagine how obnoxious he'd be about texting?"

Rachel laughs, the sound low and thin. "Oh, he'd be sending you one every three seconds. ‘ _No fights today, Steve. I mean it, Steve. Don't forget we have to go to church with Ma, Steve. She worries, Steve._ ’ Eggplant emoji."

Steve smiles even though it hurts. "And then you'd be getting them too, if I didn't get back to him quick enough. ‘ _Rach, you better keep him out of trouble. Rach, I mean it. Rach, you stay outta trouble, too, and I apologize in advance for Beck being nasty to you. I don't know what to do about that girl_.’"

“Hey,” protests Beck. “There was nothing to be done about me. And I came around eventually, thank you very much,”

“It woulda been nice to just chat with him, you know?” Steve sighs. “I coulda just talked to him all the time, while he was at the refinery and I was struggling to paint something.”

“Yes, yes," Rachel says, nodding. She's got her wine glass clutched between her hands. "And he'd love sexting."

"Oh, yeah.” Beck nods along like this is a perfectly normal conversation and not an overly personal subject that’s making Steve’s ears turn red.

“Is that what it sounds like?” Steve asks.

“Yup,” says Beck.

"You know its true!” Rachel insists. “I read that first letter he sent to you when he went to basic. Your boy would've appreciated a finely crafted dirty text message."

"I still can't believe you read that letter." Decades later and Steve’s still blushing over it. Really it was a brilliant way to write whatever he wanted to Steve and get around the screeners. Bucky just addressed his letters to Rachel Rosenbaum instead of Steve Rogers, only he didn’t bother to tell anyone about his plan and Rachel ended up reading a rather embarrassing letter that first time.

Rachel laughs again. "Well, it was addressed to me! Although it took me exactly two sentences to figure out who it was actually for, Frank was quite scandalized."

"Frank read it!" Steve asks, his blush scorching down his chest and the back of his neck.

"He was right there when I opened it. I never told you that?"

"No, you certainly did not."

Rachel smiles and rocks in her chair. "He thought it was actually meant for me. He was horrified."

"Rightfully so," Steve mutters.

"They're in the box you know. The box of your stuff," she says.

“Yeah, I know. I haven’t quite gotten around the reading it all.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Steve,” Rebecca says. “Hey, Rachel. Did I ever tell you about the time Ma caught Bucky with a pocketful of stolen sweets?”

Steve barks out a laugh. “And she marched him right back to the shop and made Bucky confess his sins to Mrs. McCormick?”

“And the way she carried on like nicking a few candies was gonna get him sent straight to hell, like she wasn’t overseeing a trucking company founded on bribes, blackmail, and beating people up.”

“It worked, though.”

“He sure as shit didn’t go around nicking candies after that.”

They reminisce for another two drinks. Then, after Steve drives them home, he pushes Beck in her chair straight into her office, right up to her desk with her computer there sitting open. Next to it is her manuscript, the one Steve notated all to shit.

He rests his hand on it, takes a big breath, and says, “I’m ready.”

* * *

Letting Beck interview him for her book, talking about Bucky, about the war, about everything he wanted back then, its cathartic.

And damn, can the girl write.

Beck’s witty and poignant, and he reads her words on the page and can perfectly imagine her saying the same things out loud. She's managed to really capture their life together, how complicated it was, how much they loved each other. Knowing that there's a written record of it helps him get up in the morning, but it's also endlessly depressing, a reminder of everything he lost and the strange, inaccurate legacy he left behind.

It becomes part of his newly developing routine. In between training at SHIELD (that looks honestly more like gymnastics when Natasha gets involved), grabbing the occasional beer with Clint, getting his exercise by running all over the city, and a plethora of carefully contrived public appearances, he talks to Bucky’s little sister about their life.

Beck pours over his notes, and outlines new chapters. She uses her own thin sticky notes – yellow, mixed in with all Steve’s blue – to flag sections that need to be rewritten now that she’s got a more reliable source in Steve. (He was there, after all).

When she writes, its not really writing, but talking at her laptop. Through some marvel of modern technology, her words appear right there on the screen, just as she says them.

They while away the hours, Beck speaking instead of writing because her hands are no good for typing any more, Steve sitting close to answer questions or tell new stories that might make the cut. Rachel pops in occasionally, to add her two cents or bring them a snack. She’s already been in Steve’s position, Rebecca interviewing her and the rest of their family forty years ago.

“Do you understand,” Beck says in the middle of a night at the beginning of October, “what this will mean? If we get this thing in decent shape and published.”

Steve sips whiskey and looks out the window. The sky is taking on that distinctive pink color that means it might snow.

“You promised you wouldn’t published without my okay.”

“Of course I won’t fucking publish it,” she snaps. “Of course its your decision. But you’ve gotta have thought about it. All this work we’ve done. You’ve got to have thought about publishing it. And I want to know if you really understand what it will mean.”

He understands. Last month Natasha begrudgingly showed him pictures that made it on the internet of Steve visiting Bucky’s grave, and then more pictures of him helping Rachel and Beck into the bar afterwards. Some super fan pointed out it was James Buchanan Barnes’s birthday and the internet, according to Natasha, “freaked out.”

The public wanted so much of Captain America in the 40s, and it’s the same in 2012, but their resources are vaster now. They want all of him and they’ll get it, by hiding behind gravestones and zooming in on his face with their camera phones.

He understands that the world has changed enough for Rachel and Beck to get married, but queer people are still attacked for who they are. They live in an apartment on top of a building full of traumatized queer kids, who have been driven out of their homes, who can’t find a foster family to take them in for reasons that defied Steve in the 30s and continue to defy him still.

Queer people are safer than they were in his day, but also less safe. It’s all so public now, pundits on news networks (ain’t _news_ a stretch) openly discussing the gays and how they’re trying to ruin traditional American values, right there on the television for all the country to see. At least in 1939, queers were tolerated if not loved, ignored whenever possible and kept safe by the unwillingness of decent people to even acknowledge their existence.

But he also understands that Rachel’s been telling terrified kids about Steve for years, as a way to make them feel better, a way to make them strong.  

There’s a girl who lives downstairs, a permanent resident now that she’s a year and a half away from eighteen and they haven’t successfully been able to place her in a foster home since she got picked up living on the streets five years ago. Her name is Tammy and she’s as small and angry as Steve once was. She keeps her head shaved and owns a t-shirt with his shield on the front, painted pink, purple, and blue. When he first met her on the steps of the home, she said, “Holy shit, its Captain America. You’re my favorite bisexual.”

(Rachel had to tell him what the hell bisexual means these days – accurate in his case, though he’s still having trouble keeping all the new terms right, so he’s unwilling to commit to any sort of label while he’s still learning.)

A week later, he ended up sitting on the front steps with Tammy at three in the morning and instead of scolding her for breaking curfew, he listened while she wiped tears from her eyes and confessed the only thing that kept her alive when she first ended up here at the home a year ago, after a string of horrifying foster homes, was Rachel wrapping her arms around her shoulder and saying in her ear, “ _There is nothing wrong with you, Tamara. Steve Rogers was like you. I bet you didn’t read about that in your comic books. And yes, I saw your Captain America comic books. Steve Rogers was just like you. He loved his best friend, he was with his best friend, and if he was here right now he’d tell you that you’re perfect. And that as painful as it is right now, as terrible as it’s been, it will pass. You are safe here and you are loved here. You are respected here and you are wanted here. Please stay_.”

Steve understands what releasing this book will mean, both to the angry masses accusing him of betraying America by loving his best friend, and to thousands of kids like Tammy, who did not get lucky enough to find Rachel when they needed someone the most.

It makes him smirk a little, imagining the uproar it would cause.

“I understand,” he says.

That has Beck grinning so wide she looks fifteen again.

* * *

**1939**

Five knocks sound on the front door. _Long_ , short short, _long_ , _long_.

A knock like that is definitely Rachel, not Bucky after forgetting his key or one of their neighbors. Steve slides out of the kitchen on his socks, abandoning the potatoes he'd been chopping to answer the door.

Rachel's hiding something behind her back, grinning like a clown. She looks beautiful, and she always looks beautiful, but she's obviously made an extra effort for the occasion. Her hair is pinned up slightly different, more intricate than usual, and her eyelashes seem a little longer. Her dress is navy instead of her typical red, belted at the waist.

And she might be grinning, but she’s faking it a little, forcing it a little, just like Steve. Seven days ago, the Nazis invaded Poland. The war’s official now, and the whole country’s had their ears pressed to radios all week, even with Roosevelt proclaiming US neutrality.

It’s difficult to think of much else with a war finally on, but they’re gonna make a real effort tonight.

"What do you got back there?" Steve asks, leaning against the doorframe.

"Oh, gee," Rachel says, fluttering her eyelashes. "Why would I be hiding anything behind my back unless it's _this_!" She produces a bottle of whiskey with a flourish, displaying it proudly against her chest and waggling her fingers for effect.

"Rach!" Steve takes the bottle. "This ain't the cheap stuff."

"I know!" She squeals, jumping in place.

"This is Bucky's favorite."

"I _know_!"

"How on earth did you manage it?" Steve steps back from the doorway, beckoning her in. Locking the door is an old habit now, something they always did anyway given the neighborhood they live in, but Steve’s gotten extra paranoid about it since they stopped separating their beds every morning.

"Compliments of Sully," Rachel says, dumping her jacket over the back of the sofa. "Believe it or not, he wouldn't let me take a dime for it, not after I told him it’s a special occasion."

"Really?" Steve says, setting the bottle on their small table before returning to the vegetables in the kitchen. "He’s never seemed all that fond of me and Buck.”

"No, no." Rachel props her hip against the counter to watch him work. "He's just gruff like that. I think he's thrilled I finally have friends that aren't a bunch of middle aged queens.”

Steve laughs, lifting the cutting board to dump the cubed potatoes into the pot already boiling on the stove.

“So I showed you mine,” Rachel says. “What do you got going on over here? It's never smelt so good in this apartment unless I'm doing the cooking."

Steve opens the oven, shows her the roast that's sizzling away and has been for hours, and Rachel actually gasps.

“Mrs. Boyd gave me a deal when I told her it’s my sweetheart's birthday. Thought I was talking about you, of course. You shoulda seen her fussing over what cut of meat to give me. ‘ _That girl of yours is a bona-fide Jew, Steve. You can't go giving her pork for her birthday! That's just disrespectful_.’"

Rachel laughs. "Well, she’s not wrong.”

The Boyds always make sure to ask Steve about Rachel, whenever he’s repainting the butcher shop windows. He never intended to tell the Boyds of Rachel’s existence, but Mrs. Body caught Steve and Bucky getting off the train with Rachel and Zelda after a day spent at the Met and Central Park. She made her assumptions on who was taking out who on dates. Bucky put his hand on Zelda’s lower back and Rachel threw her arms around Steve’s shoulders. Steve just stood there gob smacked while Mrs. Boyd tittered at them.

Although lying to her is paying off now, given that she’s all eager to hand over cheap meat for to help Steve celebrate his sweetheart’s birthday.

Steve closes the oven. "You think it'll turn out alright? Bucky usually cooks the big stuff like this, the couple times we've had so much meat in the last couple years, but I talked to the ladies on the first floor and they gave me very precise instructions."

"Well, it smells good so that's something. We'll keep an eye on it. It should be done soon?"

Steve glances at the clock on the wall. His ma’s old clock. He still gets a pang of grief, right in his chest, whenever he looks at it, but he's used to living with the feeling now.

"Need to pull it out in half an hour, right in time for Bucky to get home from work."

"Zelda's gonna be late." Rachel pulls plates out of a cupboard to set the table (otherwise known as the board over the tub in their kitchen). "She picked up a shift at the hospital this morning. We'll just save a plate for her."

It'll be a tight fit even without Zelda, but Rachel makes it look nice anyway, setting up the whole thing like they're at some fancy uptown restaurant. She even scrounges up a doily and a small vase – both his mother's – for a centerpiece.

When they hit the half an hour mark, Rachel tests the meat, deciding it needs another fifteen minutes, and Steve's pouring out three glasses of whiskey when he hears the key in the lock.

"Jeez," says Bucky as he pulls the door shut behind him, locking it soundly. Steve’s gonna need to go check it in a minute anyway, just for his peace of mind. "Am I in the wrong apartment? What _is_ that heavenly smell?"

"Happy birthday, you ridiculous old man," says Rachel, shoving a glass of whiskey into Bucky's hands and slinging an arm around his shoulders. Rachel is so tall in her pumps that she barely has to stretch up to kiss his cheek. "In a shocking turn of events, I took care of the drinks and Steve did the cooking."

"Thanks, doll," says Bucky, giving Rachel a warm smile and a squeeze around her waist. “But I ain't old. Just cuz you're a toddler, doesn't make twenty-two old."

He reaches up towards Rachel's hair, ready to ruffle it like he does with Beck. Rachel catches his wrist, digging her fingernails into his smooth skin until Bucky winces.

"Don't mess with the hair, birthday boy," she says, so deadly serious that Steve barks out a laugh.

"Okay, okay," says Bucky, surrendering with a chuckle. "Try not to kill me on my birthday, alright? Even if I've already lived a good, long life by your standards." He sips his drink, eyes bulging with surprise. "Whoa," he says.

"Good, right? Sully's looking out for us."

"Thank you, Rach," Bucky says in that quiet, serious way of his that never fails to leave Steve shuddering and warm.

Rachel lifts her own drink, nodding back. "Tsu gezunt.”

Steve’s never heard that bit of Yiddish before, but Bucky laughs like he understands. He takes another sip of his drink before setting his glass down on the counter, so he can wrap both arms around Steve's waist from behind.

"You've made a feast," he murmurs, nodding down at the mashed potatoes on the stove.

Steve even splurged on butter, doing so many portrait commissions for Sully's patrons that his fingertips started to go numb.

"Didn't have to go through all this trouble," Bucky continues, nuzzling at Steve's hairline, right behind his ear. Sighing, Steve leans back and they sway a little.

"Wanted too," Steve replies. "Believe it or not, I'm pretty damn glad that you were born.”

Bucky presses his smile to Steve's neck, and then turns the touch into a kiss. "I woulda been happy to celebrate with just you and me and a bed, you know. Plenty of ways for you to show me you're glad I was born."

“There’s time for that later. After dinner and dancing. Plus, all day tomorrow.”

Bucky's fingers dig into his hips and Steve has a hard time stirring the mashed potatoes. Eventually he gives up, turning off the stove and moving to face Bucky. He goes along gladly when Bucky walks him towards the opposite counter, pinning him there.

"You cooked for me," Bucky says, resting his forehead on Steve's.

"Don't get used to it, pal," he replies, tangling his fingers in Bucky's hair.

"Sure, we've gotta save this stuff for days when you're glad I was born."

This is normally the part where Steve would rib him, would shrug and say, _once a year is enough_. But Bucky's smile has the teasing words drying up on his tongue. It's not his cocky, crooked grin, all close lipped and smug. It's not a smirk, or the wide-open smile he gets when something is particularly hilarious. Bucky is so soft like this, smiling so gently his features get smoothed out. He smiles at Steve like he's a miracle, like Bucky needs to look at Steve like he needs to breathe.

Steve is flooded with tenderness for this boy, this man, _his best friend_. And he can't tease when Bucky's looking at him like that.

"I'm glad of that everyday, Buck," he says, tilting his face up for a kiss. They don’t get very far when another knock at the door has Steve tensing up a little, trying desperately to remember if he checked the lock after Bucky got home.

"That must be Zelda," says Rachel, from somewhere near the couch.  She's left them be to kiss in the kitchen.  She always lets them be, when they are in one of the two places it is actually safe to do this.  "Guess she got off work early."

Zelda is safe too, and Bucky always remembers to lock the door, and no one could see them pressed against the wall like this from the doorway anyhow, so he grins up at Bucky and then uses the collar of his shirt to pull him down into another lingering kiss.

"Oh!" squeaks Rachel after she gets the door open. 

Rachel's little distressed noise has them both freezing, tense and terrified.  Steve can feel Bucky's pulse kick up and he drops his hands from Bucky's neck, trying not to move very suddenly and alert whoever is at the door to their presence.

"Hello." Rachel’s voice is loud and a clear warning.  "You’re _not_ Zelda."

"Uh.  No."

And Steve can breathe again, because that's not the police or some nosy neighbor who somehow found them out.  That's Beck.  Bucky slumps down in relief, resting his forehead on Steve's shoulder to catch his breath.

"Is Bucky here?" she asks.

"Who wants to know?" says Rachel, unnecessarily gruff.  With a tone like that, Rachel's gonna get no where with Beck.  Steve can picture Beck bristling in the doorway, puffing up her chest, squaring her shoulders, and frowning.

"I'm his sister.  Who the hell are you?"

"Whoa, no need to get angry."

"Just tell me where my brother is and we'll have no problems."

Bucky sighs and presses a quick kiss to Steve's temple before straightening up and fixing his hair.  Steve trails after him.

"Hiya, Beck." Bucky opens the front door wider.  Rachel and Beck are scowling at each other.  This is not how Steve wanted the night to go.  

With a final glare at Rachel, Beck steps carefully around her and into the apartment.  She softens a little when she sees Bucky and then Steve, loitering right behind him.  Rachel slams the door, making Beck jump, and then its back to scowling.

"Happy birthday," she says, shoving a small package into Bucky's chest.  "I didn't mean to bug you.  Didn't realize you'd have _guests_."  She says _guests_ like most people would say  _feces_.  

"Beck, this is my friend, Rachel," Steve says.  And Rachel, like she always does when she's nervous and in public, slides up to Steve, resting her arm over his shoulders and pressing into his side.  It's probably too close, given that this is Beck and they are at home, instead of at a bar populated with a bunch a big meat heads looking to pass a night beating up queers or harassing gals like Rachel.

"Your _friend_?" Beck hisses.

"You got a problem with that?" snaps Rachel.

Steve and Bucky share a grimace.

"And Rachel, this is Bucky's little sister, Rebecca."

Beck huffs, looks at Rachel with utter contempt, and then turns her back on them completely, just facing Bucky.

"Happy birthday," she says again, sounding shy and young.

"Thanks, Beck." Bucky slings an arm over her shoulder and pulling her into a hug.  "You know you're welcome anytime, but you coulda given me this Sunday.  We're coming to church."

Beck shrugs.  "I know.  But I wanted to see you on your actual birthday.  That's from all of us.  Ma and me and the twins." She glares at Rachel over her shoulder.  "Open it later."

"Alright."

"Well, just wanted to say happy birthday.  Guess I should go."

"Hey," Rachel whispers in Steve’s ear.  "The roast?"

Steve sprints to the kitchen and pulls the meat out of the oven, panicking for a moment before he cuts off a bit and it's not too dry.  "Beck!" he calls out, bustling around to put the finishing touches on Bucky's birthday meal.  "Stay for dinner!"

"I don't want to impose!" she yells back.

"You ain't imposing," says Bucky.  "Sit down in that chair and eat what Steve made."

" _Steve_ cooked?" she demands, sounding incredulous.

Rachel sighs.  "I'll get another plate."

* * *

"Guess we're going to a _normal_ dance hall, then," Rachel whispers in Steve's ear.

"Aw, don't pout about it.  You like those dance halls sometimes," he replies, helping her into her jacket.

Near the front door, Bucky's got his hand on Zelda's shoulder while Zelda asks Beck about a million questions about whatever book Beck’s obsessed with this week. She showed up after they finished eating, while Bucky was cleaning up to go out and Rachel was drinking her way through the whiskey.  Zelda was much more graceful about the change in the evening Beck brought, and while they all sat around finishing off the bottle, Beck warmed up to Zelda.

She sure hasn't warmed up to Rachel.

"But I want to kiss Zelda," Rachel continues, slurring a little. 

"Yeah, well."

"Urg," she says, actually stopping her foot.  Steve clenches his jaw tight shut to keep from laughing at her.

"You're pouting," he says.

"Am not."

"And you're drunk."

"Am not!  Ladies don't get drunk."

“The only lady I see around here is Zelda and she’s drunk, too.”

“Rude! That’s rude, Steven.”

"Hey!" says Bucky, holding the front door open.  "Lovebirds!  What's the hold up?  I ain't getting any younger over here."

"No," says Beck from the hall.  "But you _are_ getting older."

* * *

The moment they get on the dance floor, Steve's hand on Beck's waist and a respectable distance between them, Beck says, "So, Rachel."

Steve just hums in response and hopes Beck will drop it.  Every time they take the girls out, it’s a lie.  Mrs. Boyle calls Steve's sweetheart a Jew and it’s a lie (sorta).  The first floor ladies ask Bucky when he's gonna marry that nice girl and its a lie.  But all these lies are more palatable than having this conversation with Beck.  It’s all lies of omission and half truths.  People see the four of them out together and make their assumptions, and so far it’s worked out alright, but now he's got to lie to Beck, too.  

It makes Steve's stomach turn.

"She your sweetheart?" Beck won't look him in the eye and Steve follows her gaze to the bar.  Rachel and Zelda are arm in arm, leaning back against the bartop, while Bucky stands in front of them, drink in hand and gesturing wildly as he tells some story that leaves them in stitches.  

Rachel catches Steve’s eye and blows him a kiss, even as she presses closer into Zelda's side.

"I guess," Steve mutters.

"How'd that happen?" Beck asks, with typical Beck bluntness.

"Yeah, who'd a thought a looker like that would give a guy like me the time of day, huh?"

She reels back to punch him in the shoulder, just like George Barnes taught her. (Just like George Barnes taught them all).  It's not playful like Bucky would be either, but angry and just hard enough to sting but not hard enough to bruise.

"Don't you be talking down about yourself to me, Steve Rogers," she says.  "You're great.  You're a catch.  Its just..."

"What, Beck?"

"What do you see in her?" Beck asks.  "She's so loud and brash and rude."

"You could be describing yourself, you know.  Except for the loud part."

"I'm not brash!" 

"Okay, fine," says Steve with a chuckle.  "Just rude, then."

They dance a little bit.  Steve's thankful that the band's slowed it down, but Beck's still unhappy.  She's worse at meeting new people than Steve is and her only friends at school are a couple of kids that have lived next door to the Barnes' since they moved into their brownstone.

"Rachel knows her own mind, Beck.  That's why I like her.  She knows her own mind.  Kinda reminds me of you that way.  Both of you are self possessed women."

"Yeah?" Beck asks, cracking a smile.  "You mean it?"

"Sure do."

Beck continues on frowning as she's apt to do, but there's a little more bounce in her step.

* * *

"It's just church, okay?" Bucky says in his good ear as they hustle down the street to make the service on time.

"Sure."

"There's no way I'm letting my ma talk us into lunch after."

"Whatever you say, Buck."

"I mean it!" he hisses as they turn right and go up the steps of Assumption.  Bucky's puts both hands on his shoulders to keep Steve from continuing onto the sanctuary.  "Just church.  We show up, we make small talk with my family and fellow pensioners for a minute, then we make up some excuse to head right home." Bucky is dead serious.  He even waggles his finger in Steve's face as he lectures and Steve tries his best to listen, but his disbelief must be written on his face because Bucky shakes him a little.  "Just church!  And then we go home and spend the rest of today doing exactly what we did yesterday."

Steve's ears turn red, his blush working its way down his neck and spreading across his cheeks. Yesterday, after waking up a little hung over, they didn't leave the warm little cocoon of their bed except to piss and eat.  They did everything they could think of, and a few things Steve wouldn't have thought would feel good in a million years but holy smokes _do_ they, even if they're both walking a little funny today.

He absolutely wants to go home and do it all over again. 

He absolutely knows that it ain't gonna happen, at least not until way later in the day, after a nice long lunch with the Barnes and a bit too much conversation. It's happens every time they go so long without seeing Winnie and this time its been months, since their first double date with Rachel and Zelda at the beginning of the summer.

Plus, it was just Bucky’s birthday.

"Bucky," Steve hisses.  "Don't talk about that here.  We're at _church_!"

"You don't even care about church.  You'd never come to church, if I wasn't looking out for your immortal soul."

He opens his mouth to argue – even though Bucky's right like he's always right – but there is a disturbance in the sanctuary, and both Steve and Bucky turn their heads at once 

"Boys!  Boys!  _James_!"  Winnie is trying to work her way through the crowd, moving the opposite of the flow of traffic as most people are trying to get seats.  Beck is trailing along behind her, looking morose and uncomfortable in one of her few, ill-fitting dresses.

"Come on," Bucky says with a sigh, getting a hand on Steve's shoulder and pushing him inside.  They meet Winnie in the middle. 

"Good morning!" says Winnie, absolutely beaming.  Steve flinches a little at her sunny tone.  Since Bucky moved out, he's not seen her look so happy.  

Come to think of it, he’s only seen Winnie look this happy a time or two _before_ Bucky moved out.

"Good morning!" she practically sings.

"Hey, Ma." Bucky blinks rapidly, obviously bemused, when she gets up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek in greeting.

"You just get more handsome all the time," she tells Bucky before turning towards Steve.  He gets a kiss on the cheek too.  His eyes bulge out of his head and he looks at Bucky over her shoulder, just to see him shake his head and shrug, as shocked as Steve.  "And you too, Steve.  You'll make some lucky ladies very happy one day, to have such strapping husbands."

"Uh," stammers Steve.

"Sure," says Bucky.

"And word around the neighborhood is that you each might be seeing someone special?  Maybe soon we'll have another Mrs. Barnes in the family.  And a Mrs. Rogers, too.  You two never have done a thing on your own so of course you'd find steady sweethearts at the same time."

"Uh," says Bucky.

Steve just coughs.

From her position loitering behind her mother's elbow, Beck covers her cheeks and silently mouths, “ _I'm sorry_.”

"Come now." Winnie links her arm through Bucky's.  There is an actual bounce in her step, and Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen anything as strange as Winifred M. Buchanan - Barnes with an actual bounce in her step. "The twins are saving the pew for us, but we don't want to be late.  There will be plenty of time for you to tell me all about these ladies, over lunch. And you absolutely must invite them both to Thanksgiving at the house next month. I insist."

"Shit," Bucky whispers, quiet as anything, as they follow Winnie to their seats.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this story so far has just been lovely! Thank you so much. And y'all seem to love Rachel as much as I do, which is most excellent.
> 
> [Di](http://queerladydi.tumblr.com/) is a beta extraordinaire. 
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) I've got one.

Natasha gets invited to Thanksgiving.

Steve's still not sure how it happens, but they're drinking smoothies at the little shop a block from Times Square after morning training. She just looks so sad as she talks about being alone with Clint in his rat infested flop, eating pizza and getting drunk just like every other Thursday. He's not sure if its her not-quite-genuine pout, the way she keeps texting him terrible old man jokes, or Rachel gently – but constantly – encouraging him to make friends his own age.

(“But you’re my age, Rachel. Technically I’m older than you.”

“ _Rachel_.”

“Rachel, stop laughing! I’m just saying I was born before you. It’s not funny.”

“You’re just gonna give yourself more wrinkles, carrying on like that. Frankly, its behavior unbecoming of a woman your age.”

“Really, Rachel, stop laughing!”)

One moment he's got a mouthful of smoothie and a die-hard conviction that his two worlds – SHIELD and Brooklyn – do not mix, and the next he's inviting both her and Clint over for the holiday.

Natasha lets out a girlish squeal before she says, "Yes, we absolutely will be there, bright and early. What should we bring?"

"Anything you want to eat, I guess. We're not doing the traditional faire, so if you want, I dunno, pumpkin pie or something, you gotta bring it yourself. The nurse for the kids and the girls’ caretaker, Mia, is Puerto Rican and she's doing Puerto Rican this year."

"Okay," says Natasha. "I'll bring something Russian. Really make this a global affair."

"Also, there's gonna be kids there. The seven who live at the home permanently, the eleven waiting on foster homes, and I guess anyone who gets placed there in the meantime. So, you know. Cool it on the assassin talk."

"No blood and bullets, got it. I'll make sure Clint won't tell that story where he shot that guy through each eyeball when he was diving off a roof to escape. But I must say, the kids would _love_ that story."

"Rachel won't."

Natasha's eyes go wide, as if getting Rachel to like her is her most pressing concern, rather than whatever matter of national security she's going to discuss when she meets with the higher ups after this smoothie break.

"No assassin talk," she agrees.

"Oh, and let Beck talk to you about why Thanksgiving is a bullshit holiday and genocide of the American Indian. She makes some great points. Really, you’ll learn a lot. Or at least I did."

Natasha fights a smile. "Okay."

Steve takes a deep breath. Rachel and Beck are going to adore Natasha. They'll be amused by Clint. The kids are going to love having not one but three Avengers join them for dinner. Really, the whole thing will go great and there is no reason to stress about it. Maybe if he keeps repeating all that on a loop in his brain, he'll actually stop stressing about it.

"Thank you, Steve," Natasha says, quietly, leaning across the table to squeeze his arm. She stands and sucks up the last dregs up her smoothie, the slurping sound making Steve wince. It's too cold for smoothies, but Steve runs hot and nothing he's seen yet seems too cold for Natasha. She glances at the counter of the little smoothie shop and looks like she's seriously considering getting another one.

"You want the rest of mine?" he offers.

Natasha leans down to take a sip and grimaces. “Ew, blueberries," she says. "Gross."

"Who doesn't like blueberries?"

"Not all of us grew up worshiping the good ol' red, white, and blueberries, Cap." She laughs at her own bad joke as she walks out the door.

Steve considers getting one of those tweeter things, just so he can tell the world that the Black Widow, in addition to being able to kill someone three times her size with just her fingers, thinks terrible puns are hilarious and has an endless supply of old man jokes.

He wonders if anyone would believe it.

* * *

Once a week, he tries to make it to The Tower to have lunch with Tony. Usually, Tony is vastly unaware that it’s the middle of the day and not the middle of the night, and every time Steve’s dropped in, there’s been at least one new Iron Man suit in Tony’s lab, adding to the ever growing collection.

This time, there are two and a half additions.

“But I just ate dinner, Cap.” Tony pushes his goggles up on top of his head before he gets the blowtorch off. A couple sparks land in his hair, but Tony doesn’t notice.

“If by _just_ , you mean twelve hours ago,” drawls Jarvis from the ceiling. “And if by _dinner_ you mean a package of ramen noodles, dry, than yes. You did _just_ eat _dinner,_ sir.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m not hungry, Capsicle. Now, unless you want to unbreak my heart by moving back into the beautiful suite I painstakingly constructed and decorated just for you, then you can get lost.”

Every week there are more robot suits, and every week Tony Stark looks a little worse. The bags under his eyes get bigger and darker. Today, they’re a nice, deep purple, and Steve would think someone punched Tony – a completely understandable impulse – if he hasn’t been around to see them get progressively darker.

Steve never got to come home from the war with his fellow soldiers, but he imagines a fair few of them looked like Tony does now. One of his oldest memories is of some drunk in the gutter, looking pathetic as anything, and his Ma giving him a few coins on their way to church, even though they absolutely could not afford such generosity. “He fought in the war,” she murmured when Steve asked why she bothered. “Not all of them came home as easily as George. Some came home _sick_.”

Tony looks sick. His hair is as greasy as the tank top he’s wearing. He’s wild-eyed, skittish. His cheeks are getting gaunt and hollow.

“Where’s Pepper?” Steve asks.

“How the hell should I know?”

“Tony, come on.”

“Singapore, maybe? Or Hong Kong? Dubai? Cali-fucking-fornia? Her schedule is really impossible. She’s got my company to run, after all.” He turns on the blowtorch again, but doesn’t actually blowtorch anything.

“Do you want to come to Thanksgiving?” Steve asks, even though when he opened his mouth he had every intention of suggesting the Indian restaurant around the corner. They’ve got a buffet for lunch and are too polite to charge him extra even though he eats enough for three normal people. He makes sure to tip them 200 percent because he can do that now.

Last week he had no intention of bringing anyone from his new life home with him. Now he’s going around inviting all the Avengers who live on this planet to Thanksgiving. They seem to need it, and Steve sure as hell doesn’t have another way to help Tony. He’s barely managing to get himself out of bed, most mornings.

Tony turns off the blowtorch and stops moving for the first time since Steve stepped into the lab. “Am I really cracking up, or did you just invite me to your beloved borough? Your sacred streets? Brooklyn, oh Brooklyn. _Your_ Brooklyn.”

“Uh,” Steve says, running his hand through his hair. He tries to move his fingers through bangs that SHEILD trimmed off him months ago. “Clint and Natasha are coming. So. I’ll invite Bruce, too.”

Tony scoffs. “Bruce doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”

“He might want to come and talk to Beck about that. There’ll be Puerto Rican food. And something Russian.”

“This is for real? This is a real invite into the inner sanctum of Steve? Wow, Rogers, I thought you were here just to drag me to that Indian place. You know they refuse to serve me more than two alcoholic beverages? They cut me off at two alcoholic beverages! Even when I offer to pay their rent for six months.”

“I’m still dragging you to the Indian place,” Steve says, “but I’m also inviting you to Thanksgiving.”

“Well, it has been a good few years since I saw Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Barnes—“

“That’s _Dr_. and Mrs. Barnes to you, Tony.”

“The professor and her wife were around some when I was growing up, you know? Rachel got her big break designing my mom and her fancy friends ball gowns. You know how much money I’ve dumped into that home of theirs? A lot, my friend. I guess I could eat food in Brooklyn again. It would make my dead mom proud.”

“So,” Steve says, blinking rapidly. “Is that a yes?”

“You can pencil me in. Now, are we having Indian food or what? I’m pre-gaming this meal, given their frankly insulting drink limit.”

* * *

**1939**

"Britain," Steve says, listing off countries on his fingers. "France, Australia, New Zealand. Even _Canada's_ declared war on Germany, now. The war's already made it across the Atlantic. No proclamations of neutrality from Roosevelt are gonna change that. Eventually, we'll have to take sides."

"You're too eager for a fight," replies George Barnes. He slips his wine, this third glass going down quicker than the first and the second.

Steve’s still nursing his first. He’s started to equate _drunkenness_ with _Sully’s_ and _touching Bucky all the time_ , so it’s best to refrain today.

"Always, with you.” George waggles a finger in Steve’s direction. “Always so eager for a fight. You wouldn't be so eager if you knew what a war actually looks like, up close."

"Maybe," Steve agrees. "But I also know that what Hitler is doing ain't right, and that he's gonna keep doing it until someone stands up and forces him to stop."

"What, and you don't think all those countries you just listed will be enough?"

"No, I don't," Steve says. This is the calmest conversation he's had about the war since the Nazis took Poland. There have been yelling matches in the bar that led to Sully actually kicking people out, and when Steve tagged along with Peter to meet up with his socialist friends at a bar in Harlem, the night nearly devolved into fisticuffs. So far the arguments are all pro-neutrality verse pro joining the war against the Nazis. He hasn’t had the misfortune to run into any Bund and their ilk. If he does, he’ll probably getting into some fisticuffs himself.

But George is calm as always. Calm like he was when he tried to help Steve make sense of the last world war, when Steve really got interested in the conflict that killed his father when he was twelve.

Today, Steve and Bucky stepped through the front door of the Barnes’ house for the first time in three years, Rachel tagging along, too. This time, they had to knock and Winnie took their coats like she would when greeting any old guests. Everyone was uncomfortably polite.

Calm was about the last thing he thought George Barnes would be, when he was mentally preparing for this whole ridiculous day. In fact, when Bucky agreed to invite their "sweethearts" to Thanksgiving at the Barnes House – an invitation that Bucky attempted to avoid for weeks, until Winnie threatened to come to Brooklyn Heights and track down the girls herself – Steve thought the whole thing would be the most uncomfortable afternoon of his life.

And there has been tension since they got here, of course. First, when Bucky explained that Zelda would not be joining them for dinner, as her parents came to the city from Jersey for a surprise visit just last night. Winnie glared like she's never glared before. She also was a little wary of Rachel's typical loud enthusiasm, but George's face lit up when Rachel uncovered a casserole dish full of kugel and a smile from her husband was enough to win over Winnie, too.

Bucky and George remain another source of tension. They shared an awkward handshake in greeting, but haven't exchanged any actual words yet. They keep stealing glances at each other. Bucky will frown at his father while George is turned away, and George will stare at Bucky with longing when Bucky laughs with Hank in the next room. Steve hasn't quite figured out how to make it happen, but his goal for the holiday is now to get the two of them in the same room and talking.

Despite a few uncomfortable moments, being in the Barnes house is the same as it’s always been. The twins are buzzing with energy, their games getting a little wild here and there, but they settle down again with a quiet word from George or a silent glare from Winnie. Winnie is in the kitchen, attempting as always to teach Rebecca something useful about cooking, only now they're joined by Rachel, too, who is right at home behind a stove.

The biggest surprise is George. Bucky's always made it sound like George was the reason they had to leave. He's more disappointed – and angrier – with his father than his mother, and Steve always assumed that George has hated them both for years.

Instead, he's still just George Barnes, quiet but not shy, Winnie's partner rather than the head of the household. Smart and articulate when he does decide to speak, slightly overwhelmed by the big personalities of his children, but happier when he's around them just the same.

Rumor has it, that before George went off to fight in the first war, he was a lot like Bucky. Winnie's always said she'd never met someone half as charming as George Barnes, that he made her laugh till her stomach hurt and swept her off her feet all at once. He came back from the war quiet.

And it's the new war that he's talking to Steve about now, just like he's been talking to Steve about politics since Steve was far to young to really understand what it all meant.

"How much land did Hitler steal before the rest of Europe declared war?” Steve asks. “They should've stopped him in the beginning, and waiting made them weak. It'll be over quicker if we helped them."

"Maybe." George drinks more wine. "But Britain and the rest made their bed. Hitler is their monster, with their reparations after the first war, and now, Chamberlain letting him run a muck for so long. Let Europe handle itself for once."

"George." Steve's says Bucky's father's name for the first time in years.

He told himself that he's say _Mr. Barnes_ instead. That he'd be distant and cold to George, but polite. Whatever George did before he kicked them out, it hurt Bucky more than anything else, and Steve wanted to punish him for it. He thought George would make it easy. He thought he'd be angry or cruel or more silent than usual. Instead, he's just the same, the closest thing Steve ever had to a father himself, and so Steve calls him George without thinking.

Steve takes a big breath, and continues.

"He's our monster, too. Eugenics started here, and we had a hand in those reparations. Plus, Rachel's still got family in Poland, some in Kiev. Great aunts and uncles and cousins. People she's never actually met, except through letters. There's got to be what, a couple million Jews in Poland alone? What's gonna happen to them?"

George flinches and it makes Steve's stomach drop. He's never even seen George flinch in a boxing ring, back in the day when he'd tag along to the gym to watch George spar with Bucky's uncles, but Steve's words do it.

"Sorry," Steve says.

"No," replies George, shaking his head and finishing his wine. Steve leans forward, picking up the bottle on the coffee table to refill the glass. "It’s a point worth making. And America has been good for the Jews. But not _that_ good. You heard of the MS St. Louis? German ocean liner?”

“No.”

“Well, it leaves Germany last spring, full of nearly a thousand Jewish refugees. It gets to Cuba at the end of May. They are turned away. So they set their sights on America, on Florida, only 90 miles away. And guess what?”

“They’re turned away,” Steve says, heart sinking.

“And the same when they go North, to Canada. They are turned away. There are no saviors for the Jews in the Americas.”

“It’s gotta be better than Hitler, right?” Steve suddenly sounds too young to his own ears, and too desperate.

“Yes. Perhaps. Or maybe so many will be slaughtered in this new war, caught in the crossfire no matter what America does. That’s what the old one was like. A slaughtering.”

Steve thinks of the picture of his father in his uniform. It’s the one with the silver frame in need of polishing, taken right before he shipped out. Just a couple months later he died choking on mustard gas. It’s still in the trunk under the beds, never unpacked when they moved into the apartment because Steve’s stomach always takes a turn when he sees it.

Steve will never stop being amazed by how calm George can talk about this new war, even though he came back from the last one so quiet. He can talk about it, has always talked about it, when so many other fathers in the neighborhood continue to drink themselves stupid (or dead) just to get out of even _thinking_ about it.

“It's dangerous for my people everywhere, you know?” George continues. “And you’re right, it’s only gotten more dangerous with Hitler in charge. It's selfish, really. I’m selfish. Steve, I nearly cried in relief when Roosevelt said we’ll stay neutral, because I'd rather Europe be more dangerous for my people than have my son be the one to stand up to Hitler."

Steve shivers, goose bumps suddenly breaking out on his arms. He never thought about it quite like that before. Steve would go over there in a heartbeat if he could. He's imagined himself free of asthma and scoliosis and a bad heart, being a solider and fighting for what's right.

But he wants Bucky nowhere near a war.

In the next room, someone puts on music and Bucky swings Hannah into his arms. She stands on his feet even though she's too big for it now, and Bucky slides them around with the wood floor beneath his socks, both laughing loud and free.

"It'll be boys just like Bucky," George murmurs. He looks so much like his son in this moment, Steve can't meet his eye. "If it comes to it, they'll destroy boys just like Bucky, but not you."

"What right would I have to sit it out while other men are dying?"

"You wouldn't have a choice, Steve. They won't take you. And you should be thankful for it."

Steve’s spared the need to reply, when Bucky demands he come throw around a baseball in the street before its time to eat.

* * *

“So where’s the old country for you?” Rachel asks when they’re all seated at the table, plates heaping with food. “Usually I can tell with the last names, but I don’t think Barnes is Jewish?”

She looks between Bucky and George, where their seated on the other end of the table. Winnie put Steve as far from Bucky as possible, the seating arrangement very intentional.

George glances at Bucky, but he’s got his head down, steadily eating his way through turkey. This used to be one of Bucky’s favorite stories to tell. He’d say, “ _And they changed our last name, just like that! Can you believe that some clerk could just change somebody’s last name! Just like that_?”

Steve could jump in, explain the story behind the name himself, but he’s feeling distinctly less chatty since his conversation with George. Both the revelation that if the US goes to war like Steve thinks it should, Bucky will have to go to war too, and George’s easy and casual conviction that Steve would never be doing it himself, have left him shaken.

For a painful moment, Rachel’s cheerful demeanor slips and she squeezes Steve’s hand under the table. No one speaks and it looks like not even Rachel’s cheery optimism will be able to salvage the meal.

Steve really should say something, just to save Rachel the embarrassment, but then George clears his throat and wipes the lips with his napkin.

“Well, it wasn’t Barnes, not before Ellis Island,” he replies.

“Ah.” Rachel smiles. “One of _those_ names.”

“Yes, Barngolts was deemed too foreign and too complicated for the Americans to learn, so when my father came through from Russia in ‘97 they jotted it down as Barnes. Americans are well acquainted with barns. This is an agrarian nation, you know.”

That gets out a snort out of Bucky, but he shoves some more turkey into his mouth to cover up his amusement. God forbid Bucky find anything his father says amusing.

Steve sighs and pokes at his mash potatoes.

“So you were born here,” Rachel says.

“Yes, my parents actually met on the trip over.”

“Very romantic.”

That gets a snort out of Winnie, at the other head of the table. All head swivel in her direction and she shrugs. “I’ve never heard the cramped, damp quarters of smelly, slow moving ocean liners called romantic before.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rachel replies. “Two young people, on a journey into the unknown, find each other and start their lives in the new world together. _Romantic_. What about you, Mrs. Barnes? Were you born here? Isn’t Buchanan Scottish?”

So Winnie gets to talk about getting on a boat days before the Easter Rebellion and her stoic Scottish father who never wanted anything to do with his Irish wife and all the children they had while he wasn’t paying attention.

It’s such familiar territory. These are stories Winnie used to tell them after she tucked them into bed, when Steve used to sleep over on nights his Ma had shifts at the hospital.

Steve relaxes slightly. He even smiles when Winnie tells that story of how seasick her brother Tommy was on the way over. He relaxes some more, when the twins start singing some dirty song in Gaelic Tommy taught them, Beck egging them on and Winnie scolding them.

By the time their plates are licked clean, everyone stuffed and sated, it almost feels like any other holiday spent around the Barnes dining room table.

Except for Bucky. He barely says a word.

* * *

Sully's is closed for the holiday, but when they get off the trolley and walk over to drop Rachel off for the night, there is light coming through the drawn curtains and they can hear music thrumming.

"Sully was supposed to be with Frank's family for dinner," Rachel says. "Guess he got back early?"

When they step inside and get the door closed behind them, Steve lets out a breath he's been holding since George said, " _And you should be thankful for it."_ As if all his health issues would keep him safe instead of killing him by the time he turns thirty, (if about a dozen separate doctors are to be believed).

Dinner was fine. For a few moments there, Steve actually felt like he had his family back. Really, the day could not have gone better and he honestly expected it to end worse. With tears, maybe.

The whole day was _fine_.

But Rachel sat close to Steve's side while Bucky was on the opposite end of the table, and it felt wrong. Rachel touched him so casually and it made Winnie smile, but Steve worried his pumpkin pie might come right back up and not because of the ulcers. Winnie teased them about tying the knot and Steve couldn't even pretend to smile.

He's always hated lying, but its worse when it’s the Barnes he's lying to. And he's still so angry that lying is necessary at all, to finally get them permission to come home. Without Rachel on his arm, they still wouldn’t be welcome in the house they grew up in.

Walking into a room full of regulars at Sully's is a relief. They are allowed to be their whole selves, here, no elaborate lies necessary for them to be welcome in this room, and Steve can breathe again.

Beside him, Rachel lets out a delighted laugh when she sees Sully. She slips out of her coat, dumps it on a stool, and then hops up on the bar, swinging her legs up and over before landing on the far side. She throws her arms around Sully, who smiles back indulgently, patting her hair.

"How was it?" demands Peter. He laughed at them for about ten years, when Bucky told the whole story of how they were roped into inviting the girls to Thanksgiving, but now he looks genuinely concerned.

Steve glances over his shoulder at Bucky's face – eyes blank, jaw clenched, slight furrow between his eyebrows – and understands this concern.

"Coulda been worse." Bucky shrugs.

“Rachel’s a lifesaver,” Steve says. “Every potential awkward moment, she got the conversation started up again. We’d never of made it passed the introductions without her.”

From behind the bar, Rachel blows him a kiss even she continues to tell Sully about the day.

“Oh, and my ma is partial to Christmas weddings.” Bucky grimaces. “You know, in case that effects any plans I may or may not have for Zelda. She also thinks Steve and Rachel would have handsome children.”

Steve frowns up a Bucky. “She said that?”

“Yup.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Peter nods in sympathy. "Let me buy you fellas a drink. Seems like you could use it."

"Thanks, but I'm done with the booze for the night," Bucky replies.

"Really?" asks Steve.

"You have your drink, Stevie. And then let me take you home."

So Steve leans against the bar next to Peter, drinking his beer and filling Peter on how strange all the almost-normalcy of the evening seemed. Bucky doesn't say much, but he stays pressed along Steve's back, wrapping his arms around Steve's waist and nosing at Steve's hairline.

* * *

"Bucky," he whispers on the walk home. "You ever going to tell me exactly what happened in '36?"

"No." It sounds more like a habit than a staunch conviction that Steve must never know the exact circumstances that led to them getting thrown out on the streets.

"They found out, right? I can't imagine how, but they found us out."

Bucky sighs, but he doesn't deny it.

"I always thought it was your pop, like he got real nasty with you. Like he started to hate us both when he found out, or something. Like he disowned you."

"I never said that."

"You never said anything!" Steve snaps. Bucky closes his eyes, for just a second, but the hurt expression is enough to make Steve regret his tone. It's been a long, hard day, despite how okay it was, and there's no need to make it worse by yelling at Bucky. "He loves you a lot, you know? Did you talk to him at all?"

Bucky sighs. "He asked if we needed money, while the rest of you were playing cards before desert."

"That's it?"

Bucky clenches his jaw and nods.

"We were talking about the war," Steve says.

Bucky snorts. "Great."

"And about how no one's there to protect the Jews in Poland and Eastern Europe."

"Even better."

"He said he's selfish, because he'd rather leave Europe and its Jewry to its fate, than have you be the one sent over there to fight Hitler."

"Jesus." Bucky stops and presses the palms of his hands to his eyes. Steve counts to ten, knowing that Bucky’s counting too, and then Bucky drops his hands. "Ma's been trying to get me to pick up shifts with Tateh at the garage, since she found out about Zelda."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Don't think I could handle being alone with him like that, though."

"Well, what about the gym? Your uncles will be around for that. And you’ll get to punch Tommy. You _love_ punching Uncle Tommy."

Bucky gnaws on his lip for a few seconds. "You think they still go spar on Tuesdays?"

"Buck," says Steve, laughing a little. "They've been sparring on Tuesdays since before I met you."

“He really said all that?”

“Yeah, Buck. He sure did.”

Bucky takes a deep breath. It sound shaky, like it should be coming from Steve’s asthma prone lungs instead of his own healthy chest.

“I’m still so fucking _mad_ at him.”

“For whatever happened that you won’t tell me about.”

“Right. And I swear he’s still so mad at me, even if he doesn’t want me to get blown up in Europe.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, just watches as Bucky approaches with his head hanging low, shuffling his feet. He doesn’t stop until there’s only an inch of space between them. When Bucky drops his forehead to rest it on Steve’s, Steve closes his eyes and breathes deep, hoping that Bucky will breathe with him. That always helps when Steve’s choking for air, when he can hear Bucky breathing deep.

“When did this all get so complicated, huh?” Bucky whispers.

“Oh, probably around the time I got my first woody because you grew three inches in two months and had a jaw line all of a sudden.”

“Or maybe when I was getting myself off to how your fingers looked wrapped around pieces of charcoal when I was about fourteen.”

“Fourteen!” Steve opens his eyes to see Bucky grinning a little. “Wow, you got me beat. Guess this is all your fault then, huh?”

That actually makes Bucky laugh, but he keeps his eyes closed and is back to sighing and frowning a moment later.

“Can we go home now?” he whispers.

Steve takes his hand and leads him in the direction of the tenement, but he’s got to drop it a second later, outta fear of running into someone they know when they turn around the next corner.

* * *

The moment they’re through the front door Bucky's on him, big hands wrapped around Steve's hips.

"The lock," Steve says, breathing hot and salty against Bucky's mouth. "Let me—“

"I took care of it."

"No." Steve struggles to turn away. "Let me, let me. You know I can't enjoy it if I don't check the lock myself."

Bucky groans and walks them both back towards the door, grumbling about Steve being _a paranoid little punk_.

He doesn’t stop touching Steve, not as they lumber to the front door or when Steve gets his fingers on the deadbolt. They didn’t even manage to turn the lights on, so Steve can’t see it, but he knows the familiar up position means locked and he sinks back against Bucky, relieved.

“It’s locked.” Bucky breathes into his hair. “It’s locked. We’re safe. C’mon. Sweetheart, _please_.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He turns in Bucky’s arms, his fingers finding his shirt buttons in the dark. He kisses Bucky, deep and heady. “Okay.”

Bucky’s got better eyes than Steve, and the meager light getting into the kitchen through the front window is enough for him to navigate their way back to their bedroom when Steve pushes on his chest and makes him walk them that way. Steve gets him out of his shirt by the refrigerator. His belt hits the floor in the doorway to the bedroom. Bucky gets tripped up on his own pants when Steve gets them around his knees, but they’re close enough to the bed that Steve just pushes him down to sit on the end.

Bucky’s completely naked when Steve hops up to straddle his lap. He groans when Steve rolls his hips, and Steve’s never seen him this shaky. Beneath him, Bucky’s whole body quakes, and Steve searches out his mouth again. One brief, hard kiss, and then Bucky drops his forehead to Steve’s collarbone.

“Buck?” Steve runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “You okay?”

“Sure.”

“ _Sure_.” Steve chuckles, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s sweaty temple. “You sound real sure about that sure, buddy.”

“I just—“ Bucky swallows. Steve can feel his throat work against his shoulder. “Wanna be a pal and fuck me now?”

Steve freezes, his fingers tight in Bucky’s hair.

“You sure?” he manages eventually. They don’t do this very often, not with Steve’s tendency to get over exhausted after about two minutes, and when they do its usually Steve taking it, as he also has a tendency to get demanding about things he likes and he really likes it. Bucky’s usually a little more cautious about the whole thing, or a lot more drunk. “I mean, you sound kinda upset. You sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure.”

“ _James Buchanan_.”

Bucky lifts his head and kisses Steve, sweet and gentle. “Please,” he says. “Please, sweetheart.”

That’s three _pleases_ and two _sweethearts_. Bucky’s voice is rough, like he really needs it, and Steve says, “Okay.”

His hands are gentle. Bucky doesn’t rush him, just lies where Steve places him, gazing up and panting. Bucky’s hips arch off the bed and he covers his mouth with his hand, trying to keep quiet.

Exhaustion be damned, Steve could do this forever, could touch Bucky forever, but Bucky’s hips are moving in earnest now, his hand not enough to stifle his moaning. Steve hitches Bucky’s legs up around his waist and presses into him.

“God.” Bucky groans, his hands running down the length of Steve’s crooked spine. “God, I _love_ you.”

He doesn’t have enough breath to move and speak, so he says it back with his body.

* * *

Steve usually passes out right after, overcome with fatigue, but sometimes Bucky gets chatty after he comes and Steve wants to know what he has to say tonight. So he forces his eyes to stay open, even if he can barely make out the line of Bucky’s nose in their windowless bedroom. They’re lying on their sides, facing each other.

"I was sitting there, burning with envy,” he finally says, as Steve’s eyelids drop lower and lower.

“Huh?”

“At dinner.”

“At dinner?”

“I wasn't jealous when I thought you had a real shot at marrying her,” Bucky whispers, like this is a bigger secret than what they just got finished doing, “but I was burning with it today when she got to sit near you and laugh with you, when it was my family thinking you had a real shot at marrying her."

"Oh, _Bucky_."

"For a second there, watching you two at the other end of the table, that seemed like real life. Like I'd dreamed up everything else, this home and you here with me and the bar."

"You didn't. That part of visiting your family, that's the lie. That’s fake. _This_ is real."

Bucky takes a deep breath. "You gotta remind me sometimes, I think. I still don't quite believe it could be this good for people like us."

Steve kisses him, wraps both arms around his neck and pulls him close. “I’ll remind you. I’m always gonna be here to remind you. I ain’t going anywhere.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I love the first snow of the season.” Natasha’s voice is as soft as the expression on her face. She’s dreamy and wistful as she stares out the big windows in Rachel and Beck’s living room, watching the snow collect on the balcony outside. The sky is pinkish, with fluffy flakes illuminated in the streetlights. The whole world looks quiet.

“I always hated it,” Steve confesses, even if it’s beautiful and still out there. “Used to mean I was probably about to be bedridden and ill for the whole winter.”

“And that you’d have to cut back on the booze to afford to heat your place,” Rachel says from the other end of the room where she and Beck are huddled down by the fire.

“Yeah.” Steve grimaces. He misses getting drunk. “The snow was even worse during the war. Frozen ground. And then mud when it melted, which was worse if you ask me.”

“Wow, you are a bucket of laughs tonight.” Natasha rolls her eyes and dumps something from a flask into her coffee.

That does actually make Steve laugh. “It really is pretty out there.”

“I _know_.”

“Bubbeleh,” Rachel says. “Throw another log on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t you call me that!”

Steve laughs again. He’s been doing that a lot more in the weeks since Thanksgiving. _Laughing_.

It was a good holiday. The food was delicious. Clint and Natasha were a hit with the kids, even if Olive (director of everything at the Barnes House) had to veto all of Clint’s ideas for pre-dinner entertainment. Tony was shockingly subdued, drinking steadily and sticking close to Rachel and Beck. Bruce showed up for desert, and as the sun was setting Steve and Clint threw around a couple baseballs with the kids in the street like it was 1932, the whole thing devolving into a game of How Bad Can We Make These Throws and Have Hawkeye Still Catch Them.

After the kids went to bed and the adults got serious about drinking, Rachel flirted shamelessly with Natasha while Beck rolled her eyes. Steve laughed more in one afternoon than he has collectively in all the years since 1941.

For the first time in the 21st century, Steve only missed Bucky every few minutes instead of _constantly_. And Rachel – still so observant even in her old age – noticed. She saw Steve’s smiling and somehow they’ve had at least one guest for dinner on every Thursday since the holiday.

Tonight, its just Natasha.

"Any word from Tony?" she asks. “Should we wait on him for desert? I want pie.”

Steve shakes his head. Tony is not very good at knowing what day of the week it is or how much time has passed since he slept, but since Thanksgiving he’s been better about showing up almost on time for Thursday night dinners, tonight being the glaring exception.

"I don't know if I should be worried or not.” Steve looks at his phone again, in case there are any new notifications since he last looked at it ten seconds ago. “I mean, he's a flighty fella, right? But he's been here every week since Thanksgiving. Maybe I should go to The Tower and check on him."

“You should,” says Rachel, patting her hair like she’s done when she’s nervous for seventy years. “He always looks so _thin_ these days. Not just skinny, but stretched _thin_. Don’t you think, Rebecca?”

“Taking a bomb through a space portal and then almost falling to your death from said space portal will do that to you,” Beck replies.

Space portals don’t even make the list of Steve’s nightmares. He’s seen men mowed down by machine gun fire and vaporized by strange Hydra weapons. He let Bucky fall from a train. Sometimes he’s still startled over his own too big hands. Space portals don’t have him batting a goddamn eyelash.

“I’ll go into the city after pie,” Steve decides.

"He's not there," says Natasha. She scrolls through something on her phone, and then tosses it to Steve without ever looking up at him. He snatches it out of the air with no effort, grinning at her. Even in this setting, they're so attuned to each other. All that training – and, he admits it, goofing off with his shield – is paying off.

On the screen are a series of paparazzi shots, taken through a chain link fence outside a private airstrip, surrounded by palm trees and sunshine. In the first, Tony is getting off a small private jet and in the next he’s basically hurling himself into Pepper's arms, where she waits on the runway below. Then there are a series of pictures of them walking back to the awaiting car hand in hand.

"Good," says Steve. "It seemed like he was having a hard time while she was out of town."

Natasha hums her agreement, catching her phone without looking away from the window when Steve tosses it back.    

"He's in California with Pepper," he explains to Rachel and Beck as he pulls his own phone out of his pocket. He scrolls down through the couple messages he sent to Tony when he didn't show for dinner, all unanswered, and sends a new one: _The sunshine will do you good, Stark. Tell Pepper we say hi._

Two seconds later, his phone buzzes. Tony sent him five kissy-faced emojis, lips pink and puckered.

Steve laughs and then tosses his phone to Natasha when she holds out a hand, silently demanding to see what has Steve so delighted.

"That's a nifty tricky," says Rachel.

"Like juggling."

"What, are you two a coupla superheros or something?"

Two minutes later, a giant snowball hits the sliding glass door, shortly followed by another.

"Clint." Natasha beams as rises from her seat.

"I thought he was on a mission," Steve says, following close behind her.

They pull on boots and then brave the snow to go out on the balcony, peering over the edge. Sure enough, there is Clint in a puffy purple jacket, wielding some sort of mini trebuchet. Behind him, a full on snowball war, complete with built up snow walls for ducking behind, is taking place. Most of the kids from the home are out there, joined by various neighborhood children and adults, too. Lucky, Clint’s hapless dog, bounds around trying to snatch snow right out of the air with his mighty jaws.

Clint smirks as he packs another snowball into his catapult. Steve's so busy reveling in the joy of the people below that he barely has time to duck to avoid getting a giant snow ball to the face.

"Break my glass door and I'll break his ugly mug!" yells Rachel from inside, when the snow collides with the window, making the whole thing shudder.

"Rachel's going to break your face!" Natasha yells down into the street, leaning dangerously far over the railing.

"It'd be an honor to have my face broken by such a classy dame," Clint says, holstering his weapon on his back. "Or you could just get down here and join in the fun."

Natasha goes right over the rail, working her way down the five-story building. The war in the street takes a break so everyone can gape at her, while Clint encourages a couple of the kids to start pelting her with snowballs. No ones brave enough to do it, and when Natasha reaches to ground, she launches herself at Clint, cleaning tackling him into a nearby snow bank. Lucky barks his head off and leaps on Natasha’s back a second later.

"Go join them," Rachel says, as Steve comes back inside when the tips of his fingers start to burn with the cold.

"You know what they are doing down there?"

Beck snorts. "Its the first big snow of the year. It don't take a genius to know what they're doing down there."

"Don't forget your scarf," Rachel finishes.

Steve might never get used to the way they take turns speaking now, like they've got one shared mind, like they are a singular entity speaking with two mouths.

Steve wraps a scarf around his neck and grabs his jacket.

* * *

Steve leads an elite unit of neighborhood kids to surround and attack the snow fort Clint and Natasha ensconce themselves in by the dumpsters in the alley. He puts on an over exaggerated version of his Captain America voice as he doles out orders, just to make the kids giggle behind their mittens.

Tammy, who’d never so much looked at a baseball before Steve taught her to throw one on Thanksgiving, retained her lessons well and she even manages to peg Natasha in the side of the head when she peaks above the snow wall to yell at Lucky to get back in the safety of their fort.

Steve’s unit has the numbers and the superior strategy, but they are too easily distracted by stray, slobbering Labradors, so they are ultimately defeated by a sneak attack from Clint and Natasha. Steve’s confident in their ability to regroup but then Eduardo, one of the newer kids to the home, catches a stray snowball from somewhere right in the eye and Steve calls it, before anyone gets hurt worse.

“There’s an ice cream shop just down the block,” Tammy says, as they all trudge back to the home.

“ _Ice_ cream?” Eduardo sounds properly horrified, his teeth chattering as he gapes at Tammy.

“On days colder than twenty degrees they sell scoops for a quarter! That’s twenty-five fucking cents. Let’s go, let’s _go_.”

Natasha shrugs. “Ice cream is better than pie.”

Steve treats their whole little group, tipping extravagantly to make up for all the slush they track in with them and the fact that the shop is scheduled to close in ten minutes. Those not brave enough to eat ice cream after a snowball fight stick to hot chocolate. The teenager running the place even lets Lucky in, and slyly blushes his way into asking for a selfie with Steve. Everyone pitches in to put up chairs and mop the floor when they are done.

They barely make it back to the home for curfew and Olive greets them at the door, doing her best to look stern and disapproving. Steve’s just thankful Eduardo’s eye didn’t swell up too bad, or there really would be hell to pay. Instead she laughs when Steve gives her his most earnest of apologies.

Steve lingers at the elevator when all the kids get inside. Through the front windows he watches Clint and Natasha walk arm and arm in the middle of the street, kicking up snow as they go, laughing and as free as a couple of kids themselves. Lucky runs circles around them.

They turn at the end of the street and disappear. Still, the snow falls heavy and thick. Tomorrow or the next day, when the snow gets hard and black and tread on, such a massive snowball war wouldn’t be possible, but this is the fresh stuff, the new stuff. There’s enough of it to thoroughly blanket all the concrete of the city.

On the elevator, he keeps on grinning, like he’s been grinning all day. He startles when he correctly identifies what he’s feeling.

This is joy.

This is _happiness_.

His lungs are tight, but its from cold air and constant laughter, not asthma or grief. He’s tired and content, not exhausted and on the verge of shaking apart. He misses Bucky (who woulda had the time of his life with that snowball fight) but its not such an aching, painful thing.

For once, Steve feels alive and part of this 21st century world.

When he gets back into the apartment all the lights are off and Rachel's crying. He freezes in the hall, because Rachel’s _crying_. Steve remembered what joy feels like tonight, but Rachel’s crying and it ain’t right.

The girls are in their bedroom, probably even in bed, given the hour, and from down the hallway and around the corner, Steve can here Rachel _crying_.

"Honey, take a breath," says Beck. He can hear her as clearly as he could if they were standing feet apart, way more clearly than he could hear anything when he was tiny with a terrible ear. Rebecca sounds calm, maybe even a little amused, so there's no reason for Steve to storm through the apartment and slam into their room to do all in his power to make sure Rachel's not sad ever again.

This is a private moment, and Steve turns around, determined to hang out in the lobby downstairs or out on the balcony or anywhere, just to keep from eavesdropping.

"He just smiled so much!" Rachel laughs even as she cries, and Steve pauses with his hand stretched out towards the front door.

"I know," says Beck. He can hear the smile in her tone too, wheezy and thin as it is. "And laughing. God, I lost count of how many times he laughed tonight."

"You count?"

"Usually. Not anymore. I stopped at twenty. Twenty! He laughed twenty times. You should bake Natasha something nice."

"Bless that girl." Rachel blows her nose. “She’s getting pie.”

"Most of the laughing was a result of something weird she did, you know. I think she's replacing you, Rach."

Steve frowns, ready to storm into their bedroom and insist that no one could replace Rachel, not ever, but Rachel just laughs again.

"Good,” she says. “I'm far too old to pal around with Steve like its 1940. He's smiling, Beck. _Smiling_. We can worry less now, right?"

"For now."

"I know we were gonna talk to him, about getting him set up with a therapist he can actually talk to, about Bucky and everything. But he's got a good balance happening now, right? So maybe we should hold off."

Just like Steve did not remember joy until tonight, he also didn’t realize how bad off he’s been. He’s been quiet and forlorn, up at all hours of the night, only eating enough because Rachel reminds him too. Of course he’s been worrying the girls.

"Yes, lets hold off on that worrying." Beck’s voice gets even softer, like she speaking right into Rachel’s hair. “For now.”

"I'm just happy. He's smiling, Beck. Real smiles.”

“It might actually be okay, someday,” Beck replies. “That he here and he's so young. Even after we're gone, he might have a _life_. He might be more than the weapon they want him to be. If he keeps it up, just taking a few missions and saving the world only when the unimaginable happens, and he balances that with new friends and hanging out with the kids and charity work. He might have a good life ahead of him when we’re gone.”

Steve’s legs suddenly and unfortunately lose the ability to support his weight. He leans back against the wall and sinks down till he’s just a pile of too-big limbs on the carpet, Beck’s words rattling around in his head. _When we’re gone. When we’re gone. When we’re gone._

“We just gotta get him into art school."

"You should ease up on that.” Beck is still talking, like its normal to be planning for a day in the not too distant future for when they are both gone and Steve’s alone. As if it’s not unimaginable and completely terrifying. “I don't think he's drawn anything since he got back."

"Really? Oh no."

"Hush, Rach. Don't fret. He's smiling now, and it’s only been nine months. Give him time. He’ll be okay. Only nine months, and he’s finding people to love him. He won’t be alone. He’ll be okay."

* * *

In the morning the snow has stopped and Steve’s got a new determination to Be Okay. Figuring out how to actually live in this century was never a priority when it was just for him, but his stability and contentment is important to the girls. It’s easier to get out of bed in the morning, when it’s for the girls.

Without meaning to, Rebecca laid out a plan for his future. His last plan for himself in 1945 – kill, maim, _destroy_ every last piece of Hydra after Bucky fell – was rather destructive, and somewhere between coming home for dinner to the apartment in Brooklyn and hanging out with the kids living in the home and goofing around with Natasha, Steve lost that urge to destroy himself along with Hydra. He lost that violent compulsion that had him crashing in arctic without coming up with any sort of contingency plans for getting back out again.

Somewhere along the way, Steve decided to give living in this bizarre, flashy century a go, and listening in on Beck's private conversation with her wife gave him a How to Guide for Actually Living.

(He studiously refuses to acknowledge the rest of what he heard, after they were done talking about Steve and his smiles; Beck and her conviction that her days are numbered, saying, _"Everyday I get weaker, Rach, I can feel myself going,"_ and her desire to finish the book before she gone _. "I'll get that piece of shit written. Then that's it, that's everything I ever wanted to do."_ )

So Steve makes a list, around all the moving pieces Beck wants for him, of what’s important to him, of how he wants to fill up his life now. He wants to serve. He wants people nearby, who love him, who know him. He wants Beck to finish her book. And with his list, he builds a routine.

He goes into SHIELD on weekdays like it’s your average 9 to 5 job. When he’s there, he focuses on giving his super-solidered body an outlet to let off some energy or he trains new recruits. He refuses some public appearances because he doesn’t like what they’re about and seeks out more on his own, enlisting the help of Pepper for more charities to get involved in. He remains picky about missions, only taking short ones that require a small team, and only agreeing after a through briefing from Natasha on why the death they will dole out is necessary.

Back in Brooklyn, he spends his time cooking and baking in the kitchen with Rachel, or working on the book with Beck.

Despite his refusal to believe that Rachel and Beck will ever die, he’s more urgent about getting the book done. Beck’s breath comes in so short and there’s a deadline. This is the last thing Beck wants to do with her life, and its Steve’s priority now, too.

On weekends, he explores the city, usually on foot. He walks slow, walks alone, tries to take it all in. Tries to be a part of it. He comes home and hangs out with the kids. He helps Eduardo with history homework. He throws around a baseball in the street, weather permitting, with Tammy. He takes them all to the movies or for ice cream or to the park.

He doesn't leave the apartment for the whole week the world thinks Tony Stark is dead. He barely sleeps, just watches the footage of Tony's California house getting destroyed, the blurry image of Tony himself falling, falling, falling.

When he does close his eyes, he dreams about Bucky falling, too.

Natasha calls. She says, "I'm 99.9 percent sure he's not actually dead. That's a thing that happens these days, you know. People not actually dying when you think they do. Anyway, I'm looking into it. Stay near your shield, alright? I'll call you in if I need to."

She doesn't need to. Tony, miraculously not dead, saves the world. He destroys The Mandarin and saves the president and texts Steve a whole slew of Iron Man emojis when Steve congratulates him on continuing to be alive and kicking.

Steve replies: _Lets get Indian next time you’re in New York._

Tony says: _its a date cap_

It’s easy to step back into his routine, after that little scare. He gets up, helps the girls get up, makes breakfast, goes to the city, drinks coffee with Clint, trains until he manages to break a sweat, sits through meetings, jogs home, hangs out with the girls, lather, rinses, repeat.

It’s a start.

* * *

**1940**

"We should get married," Rachel says on her eighteenth birthday.

They celebrated with a night out in Harlem, at a jazz club to watch Peter play his trombone. Then there was dancing, and stumbling back to Sully’s for another round. Now they’re here, sprawled out on the sofas upstairs in Sully’s apartment, listening to Rachel talk nonsense.

This time last year, Steve also spent a night drinking at Sully’s but he went home alone to eventually confess to Bucky that he’d been spending all his time in a queer bar.

This birthday of Rachel’s is better. Rachel, who’s got Zelda’s head in her lap, would probably agree.

Rachel’s feet are kicked up on the coffee table, sipping a beer and still looking birthday-beautiful, even with her make up smudged and her dress wrinkling. The dress really is killer, red and fitted and something Rachel apparently sewed herself, with Frank’s help.

Zelda's faded since they got back to Sully's, probably all that dancing she did with Bucky earlier in the night while Steve and Rachel leaned against the bar, watching and laughing. She's stretched out on the couch now, her eyes half closed. With one hand, Rachel picks bobby pins out of Zelda's hair, flicking them lazily in Bucky's general direction.

On the love seat across from them, Steve is equally comfortable and equally drunk. Around him, the room is spinning slightly. It's still pleasant, rather than nauseating, but he dutifully sips on a glass of water instead of joining Rachel in a nightcap to keep things from going downhill quick. He's propped up in the corner of the sofa, between the arm and the back cushions. Bucky's lying against his chest, long legs stretched out and shoes kicked off in the corner.

Maybe in a moment Bucky's weight will get too heavy, but Steve likes it when they sit like this, with Bucky draped over him and his head resting on Steve's chest, close enough so Steve can nose at his hairline. This is the only time he feels big, with Bucky curled up small on top of him. With Bucky's head tucked below his chin, Steve feels like he can actually keep Bucky safe, right here in his arms.

Out in the world, Bucky's always pulling him out of fights or working constantly to keep Steve from dying every winter, but with Bucky lying here, its like Steve can keep Bucky safe, too. He can wrap him up and hide him away, and let Bucky feel the good parts of being small, let Bucky feel surrounded and protected. Because there are good parts to being small, outside the shame and frustration of constantly being undervalued, dismissed, his body too weak to keep up with his iron will. Steve might only remember the good parts of being small when Bucky spoons around his back when they go to sleep or when he presses Steve against the bedroom wall, lifting him easily, but there are good parts.

Being held, feeling secure and taken care of and loved, that's how Steve feels in Bucky's arms and he hopes Bucky feels the same when he lies on Steve chest, face tucked away against Steve's neck.

Wow, Steve sure is a sappy drunk tonight.

Still, he lets his fingers trace the length of Bucky's spine and he very much wishes they went home instead of coming up to Rachel's place.

“I mean it,” Rachel says again when no one offers more than a sleepy chuckle in reply to the nonsense she’s talking. “We should get married.”

Zelda snickers, turning her head slightly to look up at Rachel.

"We should get married, for _real,_ " Rachel says again. She sits up a little straighter, her voice less drunk and more confident. They know plenty of fellas at the bar who will introduce you to their husbands, but getting married for real, with the church and the paper work and the whole bit, certainly is not an option.

"Are you proposing to me, darling?" Zelda asks.

"No." Rachel dislodges another bobby pin. "Well, not really. I'm proposing to Steve."

Steve, only half paying attention in favor of pressing his fingers into the bumps of Bucky's spine, jumps a little.

"What?" says Bucky, lifting his head and glaring. And a moment ago Steve was sure he was sleeping.

"What?" says Zelda, pouting.

"Aw, Rach," says Steve, grinning, laughing like its a joke. “I’m flattered. My fella seems to have objections, though.”

"I'm not joking around here!" Rachel insists. And she sounds so serious that Zelda actually sits up and puts some space between them on the couch, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's perfect, don't you see? I marry Steve. Zelda, you marry Bucky. Your family already thinks we’re all heading in that direction, anyhow. And we live happily ever after in apartments right next door to each other. No one has to know where we really spend our nights. No one has to know who we’re _really_ married to."

Rachel waggles her eyebrows and it makes Zelda laugh. And that makes Bucky laugh, but Steve doesn’t. He’s too busying wanting that, the future Rachel’s laying out. Bucky’s been silent on the subject of marriage for the last year, but Steve never forgets that this is temporary for Bucky. He said so, when they got together. He fully intends for them both to have wives someday.

And with all the laughing Rachel blinks and then looks a little bashful, her cheeks turning red. She giggles too, and the conversation changes like it was all a big joke and not the potential solution to all their problems. The conversation changes, Rachel's proposal seemingly forgotten, but when they say goodbye an hour later, Rachel hugs him a little longer than normal and gives him a signification look as she shuts the door with them in the hall.

Rachel’s not kidding around, here, and neither is Steve.

* * *

"Hey, Buck," Steve murmurs on the walk home.

"Hum?" Bucky replies, barely paying attention. He's asleep on his feet, hands pressed deep into his pockets as he stumbles forward. If he had his way, they’d be crashing on Sully’s loveseat for the night, but Steve insisted on going home.

He wraps his fingers around Bucky's elbow to keep him on the sidewalk and away from the gutter.

"It was a good idea," he says. "Rachel's little proposition."

Bucky snots and shakes him head.

“Why not?” Steve struggles to keep them walking in a mostly straight line. If Steve were half way sober he'd save this conversation for when Bucky's all the way sober, but instead he just plows on. “I want you forever, and far as I can tell this is the best way to do it. I mean, there’s always confirmed bachelorhood, but that ain’t gonna work for your family. Plus, Rachel deserves real, legal, on paper family. This is the safest way. For all of us.”

Bucky’s still shaking his head. “You like girls, Steve. And one of these days you’ll find one that you actually love. So you’ll marry her and I’ll still be your best friend, but there’s no way in hell I’m watching you tie your life to Rachel’s when she can’t give you a real marriage.”

“How many fucking times do I gotta tell you that it ain’t happening? That you’re it for me?”

Bucky shrugs and keeps walking, suddenly able to stay up right on his own by some miracle.

“Don’t I get a say in what I want at all?” Steve yells at his back.

Bucky doesn’t even turn around. “You’ve always been terrible at looking out for yourself, pal. Trust me on this one.”

Steve’s so mad that he tries to sleep on the couch. But the thing is misshapen and it’s so cold out in the living room. He’s gotten used to listening to Bucky breathe as he falls asleep, the sound far superior to any lullaby Steve’s ever heard, even if Bucky’s got an excellent singing voice.

He gives up after thirty minutes and when he pushes open the door Bucky says, “Oh, thank God,” and throws back the covers.

* * *

It becomes the theme of the summer. Well, along with the ever-escalating war.

The Nazis invade France, Belgium, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, and Rachel plans a double wedding every time she’s had even a sip of alcohol.

Paris falls in a matter of days and Steve says, “I’ll marry you in the morning, Rachel Rosenbaum,” and Bucky pouts and Zelda laughs, like the whole thing is still a big joke instead of everything Steve’s always wanted.

The Soviets take Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia, the Nazis bomb Britain, and Rachel sketches out wedding dresses in Steve’s notebook.

Europe is on fire, and Bucky’s being so stubborn about this marriage scheme, but it’s still the best summer of Steve’s life.

He’s coming off a winter season where he wasn’t sick at all, just a minor cold between Christmas and Thanksgiving that cleared up by New Years, which means all that money they put aside every pay check for medical emergencies grows so large that Bucky agrees that they can stop adding so much to it.

All of a sudden, they have spending money. All of a sudden, they’re almost comfortable.

So their summer fills up with drinking their way through the queer bars of The Village and attending jazz shows in Harlem at clubs with actual covers. Bucky gets a new suit. Steve gets a new easel. They take the girls out to fancy dinners in the city, to restaurants that cater to queer clientele, and they dress like swells and all do their best to talk in overly posh accents.

They see Bucky’s family, George included, at least once a week, and each dinner is a little less strained, a little more comfortable, until family time becomes something to look forward to instead of something to dread.

Along with church and family dinner once a week, they go to all sorts of ballgames, a whole big group of them. George and Uncle Tommy, Beck and Hank, Steve and Bucky. Rachel even tags along on occasion, although her knowledge of the sport is embarrassingly _lacking_. It gives Hank a chance to blather on in great detail about Hugh Casey's stats for the last couple season and the strategy of batting orders. Beck brings a book to read, but she always manages to be looking when the Dodgers score a run. It’s a winning season so far, a cherry on top of Steve’s already perfect summer.

The radio drones on about War in Europe but Steve’s never been happier.

On weekends, they join the crowds at the beach. Zelda schedules her shifts around free days at art museums across the city, and Steve goes with her to the Brooklyn Museum four times in three months.

His art benefits from the best summer of Steve’s life, too. He gets bolder, painting scenes from Sully’s for his WPA works. His crowded, gritty scenes could rival Reggie Marsh and suddenly, his art looks like he’s spends more time with queers than normals, a reflection of their neighborhood and Steve’s life.

Bucky’s right there with him, through all of it, and he might be against Steve and Rachel’s Grand Marriage Plan, but he certainly acts like he’s married to Steve already.

He kisses Steve goodbye in the mornings when he leaves for the refinery and he wraps his arms around Steve’s waist the moment he gets home in the afternoon. They make their plans together, sorting through life’s little trivialities same as he’s heard Winnie and George do countless times.

Their money merges, until Steve genuinely loses track of who’s making what. He just hands over his paychecks to Bucky and watches him count out their budget, making piles on the table for bills, rent, food, Steve’s medicine, Bucky’s grooming products, and spending money. When they go out, Steve offers no complaint when Bucky carries the money and buys their drinks. He’s always had a head for numbers anyhow.

When the nights get a chill in the air around Bucky’s birthday in September, Steve mourns the end of summer. These have been the most perfect months of his life, and if he had his way, he’d just continue living them over and over again, indefinitely.

* * *

Like his mama before him, Steve paints the windows of the Boyd’s butcher shop every three weeks.

When it’s just Mr. Boyd in the shop, Steve can get done painting and get paid and on his way in just under two hours. When it’s Mrs. Boyd hanging around, there is small talk involved and Steve’s ends up staying in the shop for an extra fifteen minutes, minimum.

When Rachel deigns to show up on days when Mrs. Boyd is around, _well_. Steve might as well just put a cot in a corner and take a nap, because he won’t be leaving the butchers for the _rest of his natural born life_.

This morning, Steve got up before the sun, leaving a very naked and very warm Bucky in their bed, and arrived a couple hours before opening. Its officially fall now and Steve grumbled about the need to pull on a coat on his way out the front door.

The whole point was to get this done early, and still have a whole Saturday to enjoy with Bucky afterwards.

Rachel, probably walking home from spending the night at Zelda’s, decided to pop in just as Steve was cleaning his brushes, and she’s been engaged in small talk with Mrs. Boyd for going on forty-five _years_.

Steve seriously considers just leaving her here, but Mrs. Boyd’s fairly well convinced that Steve and Rachel are gonna tie the knot at any moment now, and what kind of fella would just ditch his sweetheart at the butchers, anyhow?

And maybe Mrs. Boyd is right about that. Bucky seems to be crumbling a little on the marriage front. Maybe next summer, if all stays the same, he’ll finally agree.

Steve stretches his back, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he stands dutifully at Rachel’s side as she discusses the weather, the newest neighborhood gossip, and the best way to cook down beef stock with Mrs. Boyd.

His attention drifts and he gazes out the window, looking around his freshly painted cartoon pigs and cows, at the people going about their business on the sidewalk. The weather is still nice enough during the day, there’s a decent amount of foot traffic, people trying to soak up as much sun as possible before the coming winter. A trio of youngsters pass. They look an awful lot like Bucky’s siblings.

When they push through the door and into the butchers shop a second later, Steve realizes they are, in fact, Bucky’s siblings.

“Rebecca Barnes!” says Mrs. Boyd, stopping in the middle of a sentence to gush at Bucky’s little sister. “I haven’t seen you around this neighborhood in ages. Not since that father of yours packed you off to Park Slope. Its nice to see you outside church.”

“Hi, Mrs. Boyd,” Beck says, only grimacing a bit. She’s even less disposed for small talk than Steve is. “You mind if I steal Steve here? He and my brother are supposed to take us all to Coney Island today.”

Steve could kiss Rebecca Barnes. He really could.

“Of course! You just have a grand old time. And tell your mama I’ll see her on Sunday.”

They make their escape, Rachel appearing less than thrilled by the sudden change of events. Steve waits a whole block – until they are out of sight of the butcher shop – to pull Beck into a hug.

“You saved my life, Rebecca,” he says, kissing her cheek. “I swear, I was gonna die in that shop. She was gonna talk me to _death_.”

“What a way to go,” Beck says, shaking her head.

Rachel mutters something under her breath that Steve doesn’t catch.

“What’re you three doing around here anyhow?” Steve asks. Despite weekly gatherings with the Barnes family – Zelda comes with them to church most Sundays while Rachel comes to family dinners – the three kids have never just stopped by like this before. This summer they’ve struck a balance that seems to work for everyone, even if the whole thing is just a fragile house of cards built on a foundation of lies, but that balance still hasn’t included Beck showing up with the twins.

“I told you,” says Beck. She sets off in the direction of Steve and Buck’s place, the twins trailing along behind her, whispering and laughing in each other’s ears. “Coney Island.”

“I think I would’ve remembered plans to go to Coney Island.”

“We definitely don’t have plans for _Coney Island_.” Rachel says Coney Island like its the most vile place imaginable, conveniently forgetting that she’s been talking about going at least once more while its still warm enough to stick their toes in the surf without losing a foot to frostbite. Anything to be snippy with Beck.

Beck scowls. “Well you do now. Come on, Tateh even gave me money but he says I’m not responsible enough to take the twins on my own. He said you have to come.”

Steve’s footsteps falter. “Really? Your pop wants Buck and me to supervise?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Well, you did lose Hannah in Gimbels for about six hours that one time.”

“It was two hours and that was ages ago!” When Steve laughs at her, Beck takes a big breath and unclenches her hands at her sides. “Tateh actually might’ve mentioned that incident this morning when he sent me off to ask you and Buck to take us.”

When they get back to their building, Beck insists on waiting out front with the twins instead of coming up to get Bucky. Steve’s grateful, as it would be a bit of a trick to keep the kids from seeing their beds pushed together. He wonders if Beck has some inkling of this, if that’s why she chose to find him at the shop instead of coming to the apartment.

Upstairs Bucky’s still in bed, face down and snoring into the pillows. It’s the same position he rolled into after he failed to convince Steve to stay in bed for another five minutes and promptly fell back asleep.

Now, he crawls back into bed. He settles on top of Bucky, stretching out and nuzzling into the side of his head. Underneath him, Bucky shifts around and hums into the pillows.

“Rise and shine, Buck-o.” Steve nibbles on his earlobe, making him groan. “Time to get up.”

“No.”

Steve presses his laugh into Bucky’s neck. He kisses the sensitive skin behind his ear and Bucky squirms.

“I already got paid today.“ Steve sits up. He rests on Bucky’s lower back, his legs on either side of his ribs. “And you haven’t even got outta bed.”

“It’s Saturday.” Bucky shuffles around, half heartedly trying to dislodge Steve. “Are you wearing shoes? In our bed? What’s _wrong_ with you?”

“Come on ya lazy bum,” Steve says with a laugh. He tugs a little on Bucky’s hair and lets out a rather embarrassing squeak when Bucky abruptly flips around under him, suddenly laid out on his back, Steve now straddling his chest.

He’s as naked and warm as he was when Steve left him this morning, and even more appealing, as he’s awake and staring at Steve’s lips like he could eat them for breakfast, his hands on Steve’s hips.

“You calling me lazy, huh?” Bucky whispers, hands finding their way to Steve’s belt buckle. “Let’s get these goddamn shoes outta bed, and I’ll prove to you just how _lazy_ I am.”

Steve’s got to close his eyes and concentrate real hard on the fact that Bucky’s kid siblings and Rachel are all waiting out front on the sidewalk for them, just to summon the strength to bat Bucky’s hands away.

“Don’t you talk to me like that when your siblings are waiting on us to take them to Coney Island.”

Bucky sits up so fast Steve nearly tumbles right out of his lap.

“They’re here?” Bucky gets all pale as he stares at the open bedroom door.

“Outside,” Steve corrects, running his hands up and down Bucky’s chest to calm him down. “They’re out on the sidewalk with Rachel. Apparently, your pop gave them money but does not trust Rebecca to return at the end of the day with both twins in tow.”

Bucky, somehow, manages to look even more shocked than he did a minute ago, when he thought that Steve had half his family in their apartment and was still crawling all over him with the door open.

“ _Tateh_ wants us to take the kids?” Bucky asks. “Tateh? My father. _That’s_ the fella that specifically is asking us, me and _you_ , to take his children out for the day? He’s trusting us, you and me, over Rebecca?”

“Uh, yeah. According to Beck, anyhow. She did lose Hannah in Gimbles that one time.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and then he falls flat on his back and covers his face with his hands.

“Buck?” Steve tugs on his wrist, but Bucky’s hands won’t budge. “What, do you not want to go?”

“I want to go.” Bucky’s voice hitches.

“Are you _crying_?”

“No.”

“Bucky!”

“I’m not.” He drops his hands to prove that he is in fact, not actually crying, but he still looks close. “I’m okay. I just—“

“What, honey?” Steve murmurs, rubbing circles over Bucky’s heart. “What’s wrong?”

“Just, didn’t think Tateh would let us anywhere near the twins without parental supervision, is all.”

Cocking his head to the side, Steve leans back and blinks down at Bucky. Taking the kids out on their own seems like the natural next step, given that they’ve steadily been seeing more of the Barnes for months. After Mass, they’re invited back home for lunch. Beck shows up on their doorsteps all the time. Winnie actually smiles for real when she sees them. Every Tuesday, Bucky goes to the gym to box with his father and his uncles.

A day at Coney Island with the kids shouldn’t be such a shock.

“Wait,” Steve murmurs, as he thinks it through. “Is this… when you left home, was it cuz George didn’t want you around the twins? Didn’t trust you around Hank?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he closes his eyes and that’s as good as screaming out the affirmative in Bucky-speak.

“Your father,” Steve repeats, because he doesn’t quite believe it, “thought you’d hurt Hank after he found out about us. Because we’re queer.”

“Steve. It’s fine. We’re going to Coney Island. Get your sweet patootie off me so I can get dressed.”

“Your father, George Elijah Barnes, thinks—“

Bucky sighs and dumps Steve off his lap, hopping out of bed and digging through the dresser.

“I just can’t believe it, Buck,” Steve whispers, curling up on his side and hugging a spare pillow to his chest.

“Why not? You know what all those moralists say about us perverts, Steve. Can’t let us anywhere near your kids, especially the little boys.” Bucky pulls on some trousers over his underwear, casual as anything, and Steve winces.

George knows Bucky. How could he ever, even for one little minute, think something so vile of his own son?

“I just can’t believe it,” Steve says again. “How could he think that about you?”

“Wasn’t just me he was thinking that about, pal.”

“Oh,” says Steve. He presses his face to Bucky’s pillow and breathes deep. Maybe it was a good thing that Bucky’s never told him to full story of what happened with his parents in ’36. If it gets any worse than this, Steve’s better off not knowing.

“Hey.” Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, encouraging him to get his head out of the pillows. When Steve looks up, he’s surprised to see Bucky fully dressed and looking at him so softly. “There’s no use fretting over it now. It’s done. In the past. Things’re better.”

“I _guess_.”

Bucky smiles and swats at Steve’s ass. “Come on, ya lazy bum. If you take Hannah and I take Hank, I think we’ve got a decent chance of not losing at least one of ‘em.”

So Steve gets out of bed and follows Bucky out of the bedroom. He breathes deep, pushing down, down, down everything bad. He’s determined not to feel any of this any longer, determined just to enjoy the day.

“Bucky.” Steve tugs on Bucky’s elbow to keep him from unlocking the front door and walking out into the hall. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck, tugs him close to whisper in his ear. “You’re the most trustworthy man I know and I love you a lot. Kiss me, okay?”

Bucky kisses him and then kisses him a little more before they finally get out of the apartment and meet up with everyone out on the street. Steve manages to fake a grin and deliver some quip about how it’s impossible to get Bucky outta bed in the morning that has Rachel smirking, but he’s quiet on the train.

He doesn’t manage a smile until Bucky cajoles him onto the Wonder Wheel.

* * *

It gets dark, they get back to the neighborhood, and Steve absolutely does not want to go back to the Barnes for dinner, but Rebecca insists.

“You’re invited!” she says. “Did I not mention that this morning? That was the plan for the day. Rope you two into taking us to Coney Island and reward you with dinner.”

Rachel begs off to work a shift behind the bar. She kisses Steve’s cheek and whispers in his ear, “I know something’s wrong. Tell me later?” He nods and she leaves and Steve can’t figure out a way to get outta dinner, not when Bucky’s agreeing to go.

Steve would rather not see George ever again, but he’s equally unwilling to leave Bucky alone.

When they get to the house, Bucky smiles at his father, and Steve relaxes slightly, only because its damn near impossible to be so mad when Bucky is smiling.

"Tateh," Bucky says in greeting, reaching out to shake his father's hand. It used to be hugs instead of handshakes. "Didn't think I'd be seeing you until Tuesday."

"What, you think this is the week you finally beat your old man?" George lifts his fists, throwing a couple gentle punches into Bucky's arm. With a twin hanging off each leg, his footwork is a mess.

"You know I let you win out of the kindness of my heart." Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and grins. "Gotta look out for your fragile old man ego."

"Enough, enough," says Winnie when George tries to give Bucky a noggie and Bucky spins away.   "Come eat. You’re late.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and squares up his stance, gently punching Steve's forearms until Steve laughs and starts boxing back.

Winnie sighs a lot, but she smiles when George kisses her cheek. She says, “Go wash up,” and all the Barnes kids shuffle out of the foyer to follow her instructions.

“Hello, Steve,” says George with a warm smile, as Steve follows Bucky and his siblings.

“George.” The name leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but if Bucky’s forgiven his father, than Steve has to, too. Eventually. Someday. Certainly not tonight.

After dinner, everyone lingers. It’s nice, so long as he doesn’t look in George’s direction. And as much as he appreciates and adores both Rachel and Zelda, enjoying the company of the Barnes is easier without the girls with them. It’s like being a kid again, so in awe that this tight knit group would welcome a sickly little scrapper with a big mouth and holes in the knees of his pants. And then so relieved to still have people who loved him after his mother died.

Without Rachel and Zelda, its easy to ignore that the only reason they’re back in the family fold is that they've managed to prove they're normal enough to be around the kids, that they’re not so queer that they'll end up confirmed bachelors for the rest of their days.

Without the girls here, Steve gets to sit next to Bucky.

There’s one little moment, one little slip up, when they get too comfortable and too relaxed over Irish coffee and chocolate babka. Bucky leans back in his chair, throwing his arm over the back of Steve's. Steve's too busy laughing at Beck – some boy from her class had the audacity to offer to take her out for egg creams, apparently – to be as careful as he usually is about touching Bucky outside their apartment or Sully's.

He leans into Bucky's hand because its habit, smiling as Bucky messes with the hair at the back of his neck even as he keeps listening to Beck complain. It takes him a solid ten seconds to notice Winnie across the table, noticing Bucky's hand. Her eyes are wide, nostrils flared. She looks more scared than angry, more panicked than on the verge of kicking them out all over again.

Steve ducks his head and smacks away Bucky's hand. He says, "Quit messing with my hair, you jerk."

Bucky freezes for a second, but he understands quickly, pulling Steve into a headlock and ruffling his hair. They shove each other. Just a couple of normal guys rough-housing. Nothing to see here, _honest_. They've got sweethearts waiting for them back home.

They stay for another cup of spiked coffee and then Bucky makes a big show of looking at his watch, exclaiming about how he's gonna be late to meet Zelda. (He's apparently promised to walk her home from the hospital.)

"We're so bad at this," Bucky mutters when they’re out on the sidewalk.

“I dunno, Buck.” Steve links his arm with Bucky’s as they set off in the direction of home. “I think we’re doing great. This is all gonna work out fine after you agree to marry me.”

Bucky just sighs for about three blocks straight, but he’s smiling, just a little.

* * *

Two days later The Selective Service Act passes and Steve is abruptly reminded that his plans don’t matter.   Wearing Bucky down into marriage ain’t gonna guarantee them a future, not with Paris lost and the US Government beefing up its armed services and the possibility that the pair of them will be drafted at any moment.

Like all men in their neighborhood between the ages of 21 and 35, Steve and Bucky go stand in line to register with the nearest draft board. Steve watches as Bucky stands there, face blank and stoic, leg jiggling. He’s so strapping and brave, but nervous, too.

 _"It'll be boys just like Bucky,"_ George told him a year ago. _“They’ll destroy boys just like Bucky, but not you."_

Steve stands there, shivering and back aching, waiting to sign up for the draft. He watches Bucky – beautiful, capable, perfect Bucky – and he knows George was right.

When the war finally comes to America, it’ll take Bucky. And Steve will be left behind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got long, my friends. Thank you all so much for reading/bookmarking/whatever. And big thanks to [Di](http://queerladydi.tumblr.com/) for correcting all my many mistakes.
> 
> I have a [Tumblr!](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I should probably apologize in advance for this...

Steve likes the subway. He gets on the 2 train every morning with the same group of commuters, and its almost like he's got a steady 9 to 5 job. And he's never once, not even when he was small, had a steady 9 to 5 job, but he almost does now and he finally understands the appeal of knowing exactly where you're gonna be on any given day. There’s relief in the stability of it all.

He has train friends now. George, the middle aged lawyer who shows Steve pictures of his kids on his phone. Lori, a girl around Steve's age who works in marketing, her suit professional and her hair bright purple and her nose pierced.   Nico and Troy, a couple who met on this train. They live a block apart in Brooklyn and work a block apart in Manhattan. Steve got caught staring at their joined hands one too many mornings, and when Nico glared at him and pulled Troy a little closer, chin held high and stubborn, Steve grinned big and introduced himself simply as _Steve_.

He can't tell if any of his commuter friends know who he is – Rachel, Beck, and Natasha all laugh and say, _yes they absolutely know who he is_ , they're just being New York aloof about celebrities – but for 24 minutes in the mornings, he's just like everyone else. He goes to work on the train, making easy conversation with those equally interested in easy conversation, just nodding a hello on mornings when George naps, Lori's got her headphones in, or Nico and Troy are lost in their own little world together.

Today, Lori gets off with him at 42nd street. As they emerge together from the platform, Lori’s talking his ear off about seeing some band at some underground club in Brooklyn.

“You should totally come,” she says when they get out on the sidewalk. “My friend is friends with the sound guy and I can totally get you on the list. What do you say?”

But Steve’s stopped listening because Natasha’s on the corner, looking serious. She’s decked out in leather, arms crossed over her chest, and she gives him a rueful little smile.

It must be a big mission, if she’s meeting him out on the street instead of waiting to ambush him over coffee.

“Holy _moly_.” Lori grips his arm. “That’s the Black Widow. Oh my god, she’s coming over here. Do I look okay? Is my make up doing something funky?”

“Uh,” says Steve.

Lori is apparently capable of keeping her cool around Captain America, but has no such ambitions about her favorite Avenger. It’s a pity. Natasha’s gone out of her way to keep her face out of the public view, but those YouTube videos of her punching aliens will forever be on the internet.

“Hi,” says Natasha. She then offers to take a selfie with Lori, makes a little small talk, and sends her on her way, all in less than thirty seconds.

“You’re efficient,” Steve says, waving at Lori as she crosses the street.

“So that’s your type, huh?” Natasha smirks. “Alternative and so short you could carry her around with one arm?”

Steve blinks at her. “What?”

“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind when I find you a date.”

“ _What_.”

Natasha gets serious again. “We’ve got a mission.”

* * *

It’s a bona-fide supervillain. Some megalomaniac in possession of some otherworldly power with some plot to take over the world. SHEILD finally finds him hiding out in an abandoned train car in Moldova.

Even from a hundred yards out, as the team gets into position, that goddamn train car makes something crack in his chest. There ain’t even any fucking tracks, or a nice icy ravine to hang over. It’s just an old boxcar, but the sight of it alone has Steve’s palms sweating. Saliva floods his mouth. He swallows it down along with the panic and whispers over the comms, “On my mark.”

The mission goes fine. They surround the guy, apprehending him with ease. One glance around the tiny boxcar makes it clear that this is not the location where he’s keeping the alien, magical, science fiction _thing_ he was planning to use to take over the world, so they’ll have to bring him in for a nice, long interrogation to find out where he’s stashed it.

The whole thing goes by the book, until the very last minute when they’re marching Mr. World Domination towards the quinjet. Steve and Clint bring up the rear, doing a final sweep, while Natasha gets the quinjet up and running.

Somehow while they’re all occupied, the Would Be Comic Book Fiend somehow gets a hold of a knife, slashing at the pair of young agents in charge of getting up the gangway. Agent Rumlow ends up pulling a bullet through his head right as Steve runs up to disarm him, making the whole venture irrelevant.

It's been a long time since Steve felt the hot spray of blood on his skin. He blinks and wipes at his eyes. It feels like someone else's too big hand, ineffectually cleaning someone else's too big face, like Steve's suddenly watching the mission completely fall apart from very far away.

He stays like that, disconnected from his own body, as they hustle back onto the quinjet. Natasha is furious, but he’s watching her seethe through a thick piece of glass, her words muted.

Her rage is cool and quiet, but utterly terrifying. He always found this breed of anger – understated, simmering, calculating, _dangerous_ – to be far more alarming than raised voices. Bucky's mother was like this, with her anger. Even that realization does not make him feel sad or fond or nostalgic or anything at all.

Natasha appears to blame Rumlow for losing the captive, and all the intelligence in his head with him, instead of the freshmen agent responsible for disarming him once they had him secured. Rumlow gets defensive, claims he was protecting the team. He tries to get Clint on his side, and then turns to Steve when that proves a lost cause.

"Save it for the debrief." Steve manages to sound just like Captain America, even from a million miles away.

The flight back is long, hours and hours, but it seems to pass in a blink. As they disembark at the SHIELD airstrip outside the city, Steve tries to recall even a moment of the flight and can't manage it. He's out of his uniform, in SHIELD grey sweats and zip up, but he doesn't remember changing. Even his shield's been wiped down and packed up. He'd never let anyone do this for him, and usually he appreciates the ritual of running a polishing cloth over the surface, but he can't remember that either.

This should scare him, probably would, if he weren't looking at the world through thick glass.

"Hey," Natasha says.

Her hand looks so small on his bulging forearm, and he blinks at it, imagining what it would look like if he were still 110 pounds. Maybe he should draw it. He hasn’t drawn a single thing in the 21st century so far.

"You okay?"

"Sure," says Steve. He doesn't smile at her. This mission was a failure. Even Captain America should be grim at such times.

"Why don't you go to Brooklyn”.

"I will. After the debrief." They'll meet with Fury at the offices in Time Square. Normally, DC is the head of operations, but they're working out of the city for him. Because they know he wants to go home to Brooklyn at night.

"It's late," Natasha insists. Her fingers tighten on his arm, tight enough that he actually feels it. Steve's got to lock his knees to keep from crumbling, lock his jaw to keep his expression blank. He's suddenly so exhausted. "Tensions are still running high. I want to sleep off my Rumlow Rage before I say something I'll regret in the morning."

Steve very much doubts that Natasha wants to sleep on it for her own benefit, but he appreciates her framing it that way, none the less.

"Alright," he agrees, backing away, moving towards his bike in the hanger. "I'll see you at 0700."

"Make it 0800," Natasha says, also backing away, moving in the other direction towards Clint. "That jet lag will mess you up."

“Yeah," murmurs to himself. "It's the jet lag."

* * *

It's not that late, but Steve doesn't realize it until he's back in the neighborhood, surprised to find the street still of full of traffic. Inside, Steve glances through the glass doors in the elevator lobby, watching Tammy laugh with Eduardo.

Tammy's got stickers on all ten fingers, reached out towards Eduardo and chasing him around the couch. They're both laughing and happy and alive. Steve's got someone else's blood dried into his eyebrow.

Now he's actually watching people through real glass instead of the metaphorical sort, but their laughter helps. He's more present now. This big body feels like his own again.

A moment later, Tammy trips over nothing at all and she takes down Eduardo when she falls. They land together in an ungainly heap, still laughing, and they both see Steve at the same time. They wave at him enthusiastically, even as they elbow at each other, trying to stand up.

Steve doesn't even have to use his Captain America smile. His grin is genuine and he waves back, but he gets on the elevator instead of stopping to chat with the kids.

Letting himself into the apartment, Steve stays as quiet as possible in case the girls are sleeping. They are just as likely to go to bed at six pm as they are to stay up until three am.

Except the girls aren’t anywhere, not asleep in their room or in front of the TV. They’re not out on the balcony. Rachel’s not knitting in her sewing room. Beck’s not writing in her office.

There’s just a note, scribbled in Rachel’s messy cursive.

_At Mount Sinai. Beck couldn’t breathe. Check your phone!_

* * *

“It’s a pretty standard flare up,” Mia tells them.

She found Steve where he was doing a terrible job explaining to the front desk who he’s here to see and why. Without her, Steve would still just be standing there, in a haze. He’d doesn’t remember coming to the hospital, just blinking and suddenly finding himself in a waiting room.

He loathes hospitals. The sterile smell reminds him of his mother, who’s not ever coming back. It reminds him of almost dying over and over again, too weak to even sit up.

But now it’s Beck in a bed. She’s there because she can’t breathe and Steve was a world away with blood splattered across his face when it happened.

Next to him, Rachel’s huddled close in her own stiff waiting room chair. She looks every one of her ninety years. She’s tired, but resigned, and Steve can’t even hold her hand out of fear of crushing her fingers in his super-solidered grip. Instead he clenches his hands together in his lap, Rachel’s hand wrapped tight around his elbow. Rachel’s thoughts seem to be getting away from her more than they usually do, every moment a struggle for her to stay focused on Mia.

Steve’s having that problem, too. Mia’s gonna have to repeat herself.

Mia might already be repeating herself.

“She’s got an infection in her lungs, acute bronchitis.” Mia is direct and professional. Steve finds himself nodding along. “They’re going to keep her for a bit, monitor her breathing and make sure its clearing up right, but as of now it looks like she’s going to come out of it fine, alright? She’s going to be weak from this whole thing, and she’s need rest. I know she’s stubborn about going home before the doctors recommend she should, so we’ll call in some more help when she does. I’ll talk to Visiting Angels. Maybe get Emma to come back. You liked Emma.”

“She looks like Vivian Leigh,” Rachel murmurs.

Mia smiles and leans forward in her seat, squeezing Rachel’s hand. Steve can’t even do that. Steve is useless.

“She’s going to recover, Rachel. It’s going to clear up and she’s going to come home.”

“ _This_ time,” Rachel whispers. “It should clear up this _time_.”

“Yes, this time. I know we’ve talked about the possibility that she won’t bounce back from one of these infections, but that does not appear to be what’s happening right now. She’s going to get better.”

“This time,” Rachel says again.

* * *

Natasha gets him out of the briefing, somehow, so Steve gets to spend most of the next week at the hospital. He drives Rachel home at night so she can get some sleep, and he drives her back in the morning, but he doesn’t sleep much himself. He just stares at the ceiling, feeling small and sickly and incapable to doing anything for the people he cares about.

When Beck finally comes home, the doctor wants her to stay in bed and eat more, to gain back some of the weight she lost when she was sick. Beck’s too weak to argue. She’s on oxygen all the time now, has an improved regime of steroids and nebulizers and modern things that might’ve helped with Steve’s breathing if they’d been around a hundred years ago.

“Bring me my computer, Steve-o.” Beck’s propped up on some pillows in bed, her voice nothing but a murmur. Rachel wouldn’t be able to hear her at all, if she was in here instead of running herself ragged stress knitting in the living room.

“Why don’t you get some rest, Rebecca.”

“No,” she hisses, angry and strong and fierce. She sounds like her mother. She _looks_ like her mother, and Steve’s practically wired to go along with Barnes women when they’re glaring at him like that. “I’ll have plenty of time rest when I’m _dead_ which is gonna be sooner rather than later—“

“Rebecca!”

“—and I’m finishing that goddamn book if it’s the last goddamn thing I goddamn do.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut so hard that he sees spots behind his eyelids. He forgets to breathe for a minute, takes a lot of breaths very fast to catch up, and then stands from the easy chair in the corner to pace around the length of her bed. She tracks his movements with her eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know if I can publish it, Beck. I just don’t know yet. I want to, but when I think about actually doing it, I feel sick. Sick to my stomach. Like the ulcers are back.”

Beck’s the sick one. All she wants in the world is to get this book out in the world, and he can’t even give her that. He’s useless. Absolutely _useless_.

“Steve.” Beck rolls her eyes in truly epic fashion for someone who just spent a week in the hospital. “I said I wanted to get the book finished, not that I wanted to get it published. That’s still your decision. I ain’t gonna use my impending demise to guilt you into coming out to the entire _world_. Jesus Christ.”

He drops down onto the end of the bed. “Oh.”

“It’s important, okay?” She wheezes and wheezes and then takes a full minute to breathe before continuing. “I want it written down because that’s what I do. I write it all down, and this is important because it was our lives. Our _family_. It happened and it was real and for once I just want the truth written down.”

“Yeah, that—“ Steve clears his throat. “That sounds real good, Beck.”

“When we’re done, you can burn the only copy. You can smash my computer to bits. You can leave the manuscript in a drawer and maybe in five thousand years some future archeologist will uncover it and rewrite our history long after we’re all dust.”

“What?” Steve asks, smiling. “You really think they’re gonna be interested in us in five thousand years?”

“They’re gonna still be marveling over you in ten. Go get the laptop.”

Steve goes to get the laptop.

* * *

Steve goes to work on the 2 train.

Steve does not talk to his train friends.

Steve gets coffee with Clint and trains with Natasha. Rumlow is conspicuously absent.

Steve pummels four punching bags to smithereens and then hits the showers.

It's a familiar routine, but today he’s just going through the motions, because he’s useless to Rachel and Beck. They told him he needed to get out of the house, get some fresh air, and Steve didn’t know what else to do but to follow his routine. There’s no joy in it. Maybe he’ll take the train home instead of jogging like he normally does.

He’s so wrapped up in his head, debating the pros and cons of taking the train home, that he doesn’t see Agent Hill waiting for him in the hall outside the locker room until he’s nearly walking into her.

"Got a minute?" she asks.

"Sure," replies Steve, like he's really got a choice.

Her office has a pretty decent view of Times Square and Steve figures most people would be impressed. Steve tilts his chair away and tries not to look out the window, at all those flashing lights.

Agent Hill starts off with bland, easy questions that Steve answers with canned, Captain America in the USO Show answers. He keeps his face smooth and open, his voice low and calm, a small smile at the ready but not too ready. The same tactics he used to get through those endless psychological exams in the first few weeks after the Chitauri.

_How are you settling in? How’s Brooklyn and Mrs. & Mrs. Barnes? You sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in your own place? We can set you up somewhere nice, wherever you want. How about that Internet, huh? _

But then the inevitable question, the one he’s both been hoping for and dreading. All this, the catch up history lessons, the crash courses on technology and social media, extensive training in combat and modern weaponry, has all been for one goal.

SHEILD wants their weapon back. And not just for the occasional mission here and there. They want him back, permanently. They want him taking orders, with a diminished ability to say no.

“We’re putting together a highly specialized strike team and we want you to lead it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

* * *

**1940**

“This,” says Steve, tugging on Rachel’s wrist. Her attention is elsewhere, her eyes focused on Raul at the other end of the bar where he’s standing on a table, singing his heart out in a language Steve can’t understand.

Or maybe its plain old English and Steve’s just too drunk to understand it. That’s why his skin is so flushed. It’s just alcohol. There’s no soreness in his throat and that headache he was sporting before drink number four was nothing at all. Steve was healthy for 1940, and now he’s just drunk.

“This what, bubbeleh?” Rachel asks, smiling as Raul nearly tumbles over. At least eight pairs of hands reach up to steady him.

It seems everyone Steve’s ever seen wander into Sully’s since the spring of ’38 is here tonight to ring in the New Year. Sully’s got someone watching the door, only letting in people on a list, people confirmed as safe and not likely to turn out to be narcs and blackmailers.

Rachel’s even got the night off, and managed to coax the group of academic lesbians they know through Zelda _somehow_ into attending the festivities, so it’s not just punks and fairies and drag queens, but women, too. There’s not much moving around room, but Bucky’s managing to swing Zelda around on the packed dance floor anyway.

“This place,” Steve manages as someone sticks a fresh drink in his hand. It must be near midnight.

“The bar, you mean?” Rachel says. He’s got her fully attention now, her arm thrown over his shoulder as she pulls him close to speak right in his good ear.

“Sure, it’s great,” Steve says. His speech is slurred, but he’s not embarrassed because it makes Rachel giggle and if there is anyone in the whole world that deserves a good laugh, its her. “But what I’m trying to say, is that this year’s been the _best_ year.”

Rachel nods, her smiling going soft. “It’s one for the history books, that’s for sure.”

Steve frowns as he recalls that 1940 hasn’t just been about building a little family and finding a home in a bar and Bucky in his bed every night. It’s also been Blitzkrieg. German Jews with yellow stars on their chests, and signing up with Bucky for Selective Service, knowing that Bucky’s just what the military wants while Steve’s nothing.

How can the best year of his life be one of the worst for the world?

But Rachel rubs his shoulder, still smiling. She seems to understand, so right now, in the last few minutes before 1941, Steve’s going to let himself be blissfully, uncomplicatedly happy.

“I think this was the best year of my life, Rach,” he says. “I mean, there were good times with my ma, of course, but its different when you’re a kid. This is the best year of my grown up life. Because of you. Because of Bucky.”

“Because you’ve drawn about a thousand dirty pictures and one of Zelda’s bosses at the hospital paid me to make her a dress.”

“Because I didn’t get sick! And neither did you.”

“Because we got a good thing going on here, like a real family or something.”

“Because we’re in _love_.”

“Yes,” Rachel says. “And you’re going to marry me and we’re going to live queerly every after.”

“Queerly ever after.” Steve laughs. “You should cross stich that on a pillow.”

“ _You_ should cross stitch it on a pillow,” Rachel corrects. “I’ve got dresses to make.”

And then the whole bar around them is counting down and signing so loud his good ear is gonna be ringing tomorrow. Bucky appears outta nowhere, all sweaty from the crowds and the dancing.

Steve opens his mouth to say _something_ , but Bucky just grabs his face between both hands, kissing him silly.   Dizzy with joy, he laughs into Bucky’s mouth and clings to his shirt.

“Welcome to the new year, sweetheart,” Bucky says while Steve tries to catch his breath. His knees are weak, his vision swimming, and everyone is pressed in so close, celebrating. Peter kisses both Bucky’s cheeks while he laughs. Sully lifts Rachel off her feet in a hug. People are talking to him, too, but its all a blur and he just leans back against Bucky.

Eventually, Rachel’s hugging him, talking right in his good ear. She giggles and slurs her words, saying, “This year’s gonna be even better, just you wait. We’re gonna make ’41 the best year of our lives!”

And Steve sees absolutely no reason not to believe her.

* * *

**1941**

The worst year of Steve's life starts with burning fever and bombs in London.

He wakes up on January first with a massive headache, barely making it to the trash bin before he’s emptying his stomach. Bucky’s not much better off, after the night they had, the only difference being Bucky wakes up on January 2nd perfectly fine while Steve’s burning up with a hundred degree fever. Bucky pulls the blankets up to his chin. He says, “Looks like a flu,” and Steve loses track of time.

Bedridden and delirious, Steve spends days muttering about US neutrality and Neville Chamberlain.

"Its Churchill now, buddy." Bucky wipes sweat from Steve's forehead with a damp rag.

"Why does Rachel look so scared?" Steve struggles to lift his head. Through the haze in his mind, he's almost certain he can see Rachel lingering in the doorway to their bedroom, chewing on her fingernails. "Is it the Nazis? Are they here? Buck, Bucky, _honey_ , we gotta fight the Nazis. Someone’s gotta do it, gotta keep they away from Rachel. You know Hitler hates everyone I love? Queers and Jews, the lot of you. And me. Sickly little invalid. _Inferior._ Good thing I'm not in the business of pitching woo to any girls, huh, Buck? Better I just let this fever have me than pass on these weak, defective genetics to a kid."

"Stop talking like that, Steve." Bucky sounds like he's in pain, like it’s his skin on fire instead of Steve's. Like his brain is banging around against his skull, reality a wispy, intangible thing that keeps slipping though his fingers. Bucky's voice strains like he's hurting, but his hands are gentle as they push at Steve's shoulders until he's lying flat in their bed again.

"They're bombing London," Steve says. " The radio says so. Why does Rachel look so scared?"

"She looks like that because you're spending more time fretting over fascism than getting yourself better."

"Oh," says Steve. "I'll get better. Don't you worry about that. I always get better. You think I'm gonna give Hitler the satisfaction of letting a little sickness take me out? No, _sir_."

"I know you won't," says Bucky. He pushes his hand through Steve's hair, and normally that feels real nice, but Steve's brain is rattling around in his skull so he's got to pull away from Bucky's hand, whimpering.

"You're a fighter, Stevie," Bucky murmurs, his hand flat on the mattress now.

"A Nazi fighter," Steve agrees, his eyes slipping closed. "Someone's gotta do it."

"How bout you fight this fever first, huh?"

"If I must."

Bucky chuckles a little, but it still sounds like his skin is on fire.

"I gotta go to work now, pal," he whispers. "And after that, I'm doing a shift at the garage."

"With your tateh?" That’s good. Steve would smile a little, if his skin were just a few degrees cooler. He'd be able to think right, if his skin were just a few degrees cooler.

"With Tateh."

Bucky misses his father and the garage. That was their thing, growing up. Steve would talk about politics with George over chess games and Bucky would follow him around in the garage, maintaining the fleet of trucks that made the Barnes something almost like rich. That’s good. Bucky’s forgiven his father, even if Steve can’t and he should just quit his refinery job and go to the garage all the time because he loves it.

“You should just quit your refinery job and go to the garage all the time.”

“Stop talking, Steve.”

“You love it.”

"I love you, maybe. If you can shut up for five minutes. Can you try to get some rest? If you sleep for awhile Rachel might look less scared when you wake up."

"You're managing me, Bucky. You know how I feel about being managed."

"Just sleep," Bucky says, but Steve's already half way there.

* * *

When he wakes up, his mother is with him.

She's got a chair pulled up to his bedside. Her shoes are off, but she's still in her nurse uniform. Steve's shivering now, so sick after a year of staying relatively healthy, and he's glad she's here. It's been a long time since he's seen her, although he can't recall why that would be. He wants to tell her about loving Bucky.

Steve closes his eyes, just needing to rest them for a few seconds, and when he opens them again, his ma turns into Zelda and Steve remembers that she's been dead since 1935.

"You look like my ma," Steve says, his voice croaky and thin.

"That's very flattering." Zelda looks up from the book in her lap. "From what I understand, she was quite the lady."

"Yeah."

"I wish I had even a drop of her artistic talent," Zelda says. "The landscapes are hers, right?"

"She started teaching me to draw before even teaching me to walk."

Zelda's got a very soft, tinkling laugh. She stands up and comes closer, gesturing for Steve to open up for a thermometer. He compiles willingly, slipping it under his tongue as Zelda looks at her watch.

"She was a helluva nurse, too," he mumbles. "Kept me alive for a long time."

"You can tell me about it in another two minutes," Zelda scolds. "Keep your mouth closed."

Two minutes later, Zelda makes a satisfied little sound when she retrieves her thermometer. Steve doesn't ask for the exact temperature, but if Zelda is pleased then he is too. His mind is clearer than its been since he first started to get feverish, and instead of crawling or burning, his skin just feels disgustingly clammy. He wants a bath, but the ache in his limbs is so deep Steve doesn't think he'll make it to the tub on his own.

"Rachel left soup," Zelda says. "We haven't been able to get you to eat much more than a few spoonfuls of broth in days."

"Days?" Steve groans. He hates losing time like this. Anything could be happening with the war. For all he knows its over and Hitler's been made the ruler of all of Europe, and parts of the Middle East and Africa, too.

"Six days, since you were even a little coherent," Zelda says. He's glad it’s Zelda here. She's a good nurse, honest but not too blunt. Not angry at the universe for making Steve sick like Bucky is, or bursting out into tears even three seconds like Rachel. "We had the doctor in here on day three, when it was really bad and we didn’t want to risk moving you. Your fever broke last night. I'm getting you soup."

So Steve lets Zelda do her nursing. She helps prop him up on all the pillows they own and gets a tray on his lap for the soup. He eats the whole bowl like she tell him too, even though he's left sloshing and full when he's done. He takes ever bit of medicine she offers him, including the arsenal of medication he always takes for his myriad of chronic conditions, even though his faulty heart or his struggling lungs do not appear to currently be his main health concerns.

"Is there a paper lying around?" he asks her when he stumbles back into bed after an exhausting trip to the toilet.

"No," says Zelda. When he was gone, she changed the sweaty sheets on the bed. He hates to ruin the fresh sheets with his clammy skin, but they feel so good beneath him, he has to bite back a groan.

"Wanna put on the radio, then?" He curls up on his side and closes his eyes.

"No," says Zelda.

"What do you mean _no_? Did that old thing finally kick the bucket?"

"No, I mean there’s currently a ban on all news in this apartment," she explains, busing herself with tidying up the room. Later, when Steve has more energy, he'll be embarrassed that she's seen him like this, even if it is her job. Maybe he'll finally get around to turning that sketch of her and Rachel at the park into a proper painting, as a thank you.

"A ban?" Steve asks.

"Bucky said no papers, and no radio, unless its music."

"What." Steve opens his eyes and gives his best shot at a glare, even though his eyelids are so heavy. He has a vague memory, of Bucky violently turning off the radio and cursing to Rachel, shouting about a “ _goddamn Father Coughlin wannabes_.”

"For awhile there, you couldn't stop worrying about the war when you should've been resting, so Bucky said no more war talk in the apartment until you're better."

"I'm better," Steve says, even as his heavy eyelids betray him and he struggles to keep from drifting off.

"Go to sleep, Steve."

"Where's Bucky?"

"He's at the garage. He'll be home when you wake up."

"With his tateh?"

"Yes."

"That's good," Steve says, letting sleep have him. "It's good that he's spending time with his tateh."

* * *

When Bucky gets home, Steve gets his bath. The hot water has him feeling more human again, after so many days of fever dreams and lost time. Steve lays back, too tired to lift his arms to wash his hair. Bucky's sitting on the floor, resting his chin on the edge of the tub. There are dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping.

“You look _terrible_ , Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes. “That’s rich, coming from Mr. Death Warmed Over himself, over here.”

“Well, I’ve got sickness as an excuse. What’ve you been doing with yourself?”

“Working.”

“At the garage? On top of going in to the office?”

Bucky always ends up working himself to death, to make up the difference when Steve can’t pick up his normal array of odd jobs. And Steve hates is, worse even than being this sick.

"I do want to do it," Bucky insists. "You know I've always like the garage best. And Tateh's been good. We don't talk much, but it’s nice to be around him without anymore awkwardness."

"But you’re doing it because you’re worried about money, with me being out of commission.”

"We’re fine. I’m just making sure we still have something saved, is all. I’ll cut back at the garage, once you're back on your feet. Don't argue with me."

Steve growls a little, so frustrated he could tear his hair out. He completely submerges his head in the hot water and blows out an angry stream of bubbles.

"I hate this," Steve whispers when he emerges. His face is wet enough to disguise any crying, so he lets a few angry tears fall. "I hate what you've gotta do so I won't die. I hate it so goddamn much."

"Hey, I'd be happy to do a whole lot more to keep you healthy, pal."

Steve wipes at his face and then glares at Bucky, hard. The way he's leaning on the edge of the tub has them at eye level.

"You take care of me, too, Steve." Bucky reaches out to run his hand through Steve's drenched hair.

“I—“

Bucky talks right over him when he tries to protest.

"You do! It's different, than the way I take care of you, but its still important. We're a team, pal. You and me in this together. And right now, I'm taking care of the money and making sure you get your medicine. But knowing I've got you to come home to makes my whole day better, you know? You're the only thing that makes seeing my family bearable. You make me better, make me not hate myself so goddamn much. I love you a lot, okay? So maybe try not to worry about who's bringing home what money so much. We’ll be _fine_."

Steve wants to cry again. Getting so fragile like this is one of the worst side effects of getting so sick.

"Wow, Buck," he says, voice breaking a little. "That was an awfully sweet speech. I think I need to suck you off now, to pay you back for that one."

Bucky grins, shaking his head and flicking water into Steve's face with his fingers. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious over here."

"Oh, I know you are. You were too delirious to talk to me for days and can’t even manage to wash your hair on your own. There's no way I'm putting anything in your mouth but food and medicine, Steve-o."

"What about the thermometer?"

"Is this the part where you make some joke about taking your temperature with my cock? Because we really can just skip that."

Steve laughs until he coughs. Bucky clucks his tongue and then washes Steve’s hair.

Getting him out of the tub is a team effort, and Bucky dries him off and bundles him into bed. Bucky turns off the light, pulls the blankets over their heads, and kisses Steve, gently, chastely.

Bucky protests, when Steve gets a hand in his underwear, but he relents when Steve murmurs, "I want to. I want to. Please let me," against Bucky's mouth. His own body is too worn out to respond, but when Steve watches Bucky's face – mouth slack, eyes closed, neck arched, head thrown back – it takes the edge off how much he hates being sick.

He takes care of Bucky too, after all. It’s what married people do.

* * *

Steve recovers from the flu, only to have a little cold turn into sinusitis a month later.

Steve recovers from the sinusitis, only to land himself in the hospital a month after that with pneumonia for the third time in his life.

It gets so bad Winnie actually shows up to sit with him. Steve’s lucid enough to crack his eyes open and watch as she terrifies a doctor who dares comment that Steve's asthma is psychosomatic, simply the result of a weak will and frailty.

That’s the going theory around medical circles in regards to asthma, that the strain in his lungs is actually all in his head, but Winnie won’t hear a word about it. “This boy is the strongest child I’ve ever known,” she says, looking a thousand feet tall and capable of ripping your heart right out of your chest. “Now you’ll kindly treat his pneumonia and offer no commentary on his other ailments, if you please.”

Bucky hugs his mother like he means it, after that, and when it becomes clear that Steve’s no longer on the precipice of dying, Winnie gathers her coat, runs her fingers through Steve's greasy hair, and says, "Come to Mass, when you're feeling up to it. And make sure Bucky brings Zelda. Strange, that we haven't seen her around Assumption much this year. I'm gonna start to think that they are not together at all."

Steve just sighs and thanks her for coming.

He’s lost months to being sick. Tomorrow he’ll have to fight with Bucky over how much time he’s been working to make up the difference. He’ll have to stay awake long enough to get a painting done. He’ll have to beg Zelda to come to church with them this week, but for now he's just glad he survived another round of pneumonia when not even his doctor thought he would make it.

He’s just thankful that Bucky’s not going home from the hospital alone.

* * *

"The girls are going to that new bar,” Steve says when Bucky wakes up. It’s May, a Saturday, and Steve’s restless. He’s barely been outside at all in months and he’s finally feeling up to do more than just sit out on the fire escape for his fresh air.   “In the Village. That lesbian bar.”

There is no way in hell Bucky will be taking him to a new bar with the girls after he’s been so sick for so long, but this is a well worn negotiating strategy with Bucky. Steve aims far too high to give himself room to negotiate down to what he actually wants to do.

As expected, Bucky snorts, sitting up on both his elbows. He’s stretched out beside Steve on the bed, in no hurry to get up and start the day.

"You've barely been out of the apartment for months and you're trying to go all the way to the Village, to a goddamn lesbian bar that could be unsafe and just waiting to get busted for all we know. _That's_ your idea of taking it easy?"

Steve rolls away from Bucky a little, hiding his grin in his pillow. "Sounds fun, is all. Guess we could stick a little closer to home."

"Oh, you _guess_ , huh?"

Steve can tell just by the tone of his voice that Bucky's caught on to Steve tactics for negotiating and is begrudgingly amused.

"Sure, a movie. And maybe a quick drink afterwards. If I'm feeling up for it."

"You tricky little punk," Bucky murmurs, his breath close and hot. He nips at Steve's earlobe and slides a palm down the length of Steve's crooked spine, smacking his ass gently once and then leaving his hand there. "How come I'm always letting you get me all riled up?"

Steve keeps grinning into his pillow. "Cuz you're easy, Buck."

"For you maybe," Bucky says, the words tossed out like they're nothing. Like everything Bucky does for Steve ain't a miracle and a blessing. "Congratulations, Stevie. You'll get your movie, but I ain't convinced on the drink yet."

Steve turns his head and opens his eyes as Bucky slips his hand under the waistband of Steve's underwear, his hand just resting there, warm and possessive. They're close, closer and more intimate than they've been in weeks and Steve's still too weak for it to go anywhere, but he sighs anyway.

This is a good morning. Bucky's brow isn't furrowed with stress. Steve hasn't coughed once and they're getting out of the apartment today, for a movie at the very least.

"You're one hell of a negotiator, Buck," Steve teases.

Bucky rolls his eyes and smirks. "Who says I didn't get just what I want? Now how about you kiss me for awhile before I make us breakfast?"

"I can make breakfast."

"Not if you're still angling for Sully's after the movie you won't."

Steve sees no reason to argue these terms as Bucky pulls the blankets up over their heads. He gets to kiss Bucky for a solid fifteen minutes – lazy kisses, kissing for the sake of kissing and nothing else, the kind that ease the ache of missing Bucky even when he's been right here – until Steve coughs a small cough and Bucky decides its time to eat.

* * *

They make it to a matinee and Steve's buoyant mood is dampened somewhat with the newsreels full of the war. Bucky’s kept him updated with the basics of what’s going on in Europe, but he’s avoided the news, finally agreeing with Bucky that worrying about the war wasn’t helping him get better.

But _The Devil and Miss Jones_ is a good enough picture and there is no one else in their row, so he holds Bucky’s hand between the seats.

"You didn't cough once during the movie.” In the theater lobby Bucky leans close to speak right into Steve's good ear as they move slowly towards the exit. "Not _once_."

"Not once," Steve echoes, far too pleased with himself given that not coughing for a couple hours shouldn't be his biggest accomplishment of the week.

"I ain't taking you all the way to the Village to meet the girls at some lesbian bar," he whispers. That's always gonna be a thrill, talking about their queer life out in public like this. Maybe its the danger in prospect of getting caught, even if that reality of that is Steve's greatest fears. Maybe its just the joy of having a secret, sharing something so vital with Bucky. Whatever it is, Bucky whispers _lesbian_ in his ear as they walk through a crowded lobby and it makes Steve shiver, makes him grin.

"Fair enough," he replies.

"But I don't see any harm in having a cold one at Sully's," Bucky continues, as if this news is going to disappoint Steve when this was Steve's goal for the evening all along. As if Bucky didn't know. "Just one, Steve. Not five."

"Okay, okay." He elbows Bucky in the ribs. "Let's get to it then, Mr. Bossy."

* * *

A block from Sully's, they nearly get plowed over by a guy full out sprinting in the opposite direction.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" Bucky bellows at his rapidly retreating back.

"Was that Andrew?” Steve frowns as the guy rounds a corner and disappears from sight. "The drunk one, not the nice one."

"Dunno," Bucky says. "Maybe?"

They share a look, both of them realizing at the same moment what that could mean, seeing a regular flee from Sully's. Steve's stomach drops, Bucky's eyes go wide with horror, and they just stand there for a few seconds, staring at each other.

"Could have nothing to do with the bar," says Steve.

"Could have _everything_ to do with the bar," says Bucky.

"Only one way to find out." Steve squares his shoulders and stands up as straight as his crooked back will allow him to stand. He's all set to march off towards Sully's, when Bucky grabs his elbow.

"No heroics, Steve," he whispers, eyes darting everywhere. "I mean it."

"Come on, Buck—“

"No, no. If its a raid, if the cops are there, you're staying right with me hiding across the street. You're not gonna charge in there like you can fix it with your fists. You're not gonna get yourself in trouble for no damn reason, just because you're mad and you've got rightness on your side.”

"It might not be that," Steve says, but he's sick with dread. They got so damn complacent, got so comfortable at Sully's they forgot what could happen.

"Steve, please. Promise me."

"Promise."

They do lurk across the street, skulking in the shadows and watching in horror as the cops drag Sully out of the bar. He's got his hands cuffed behind his back and they force him to sit down on the curb, next to Raul and some other fella Steve's seen around but never met. Raul looks terrified and Steve wonders where Peter is, if he got away, if he left Raul to get caught on his own. Sully looks furious and defiant and Steve hasn't been this scared since his Ma started hacking up blood.

Inside, the cops seem to be doing their best to smash up the place. There’re so many of them, four standing outside to keep watch over their prisoners, another horde inside. Two more arrive, dragging another prisoner between them.

"Who's that?" Steve whispers and they toss the fourth fella on the curb next to Sully. His face is a bloody mess, like the cops got in more than a few licks before bringing him back to the bar. The blood and Steve's eyesight make it difficult to see a face, but he looks young. He sways like he's going to pass out and the cops laugh. Sully looks like he's a moment away from leaping up and throwing himself at the cops, even with his hands bound.

"Think that might be the new guy. What's his name?"

"Mark," whispers Steve. "He was sweet on Tobias."

"Shit, Steve. We gotta go. Who knows how many cops are out here, looking for guys."

"Rachel!" Steve hisses, already moving towards the bar. Bucky's quicker and pulls him back into the shadow of the building.

"She's not there. Steve, she's fine. We gotta go."

Bucky makes them walk away slow, with a couple feet of distance separating them as they stroll away from Sully's. They get their stories straight, that they’re just a couple a guys – “ _Cousins_ ,” Bucky says, “ _tell them we're cousins_.” – walking home after an unsuccessful date with a pair of frigid dames.

"I ain't gonna say that," Steve mutters.

"You sure as hell will. If we get stopped, we gotta speak their language and we gotta be aggressively _not_ queer. You can act normal for five minutes. It ain’t gonna kill you."

They don't get stopped. They don't see anyone. But instead of going back to the safety of their apartment – the only safe space left for them in the world with Sully's raided and even that doesn't feel so safe anymore – they get on a train into the city.

Turns out, they do go meet the girls at the lesbian bar. Even staying for the five minutes it takes to find Rachel and convince her to leave, Steve's stomach rolls with dread. He keeps looking at the door, expecting the cops to kick it in at any moment.

Normally, he'd be fascinated by a place like this. It's all couples, gals who dress in suits and slick back their hair to look like fellas and their feminine companions. Some look as sharp as Bucky when he's going out on the town.

Normally, Steve would want to draw them, the juxtaposition of soft, delicate faces and harsh masculine collars with straight ties. Tall, willowy women draped over their small, dapper lovers. Big butch women who look like they'd give Bucky a run for his money in the boxing ring and shy, coy girls who look like they'd fit better in a church than a bar, with conservative necklines and long skirts.

And then there's the couples that don't quite fit, like Rachel and Zelda, both in fabulous dresses and bold red lipstick, the two most feminine things Steve's ever seen, but together just the same.

Normally, Steve would ask Rachel if anyone gives them a hard time for it, or if most the women here subscribe to Sully's philosophy of _there's no wrong way to be queer._

Except Sully's in chains, the safety of his bar gone, and Steve's so terrified of getting caught in this blatantly queer space that he can't breathe.

On the way home, Rachel leans against his side. Steve gets an arm around her waist to hold her close and she lets her head fall to his shoulder. Somehow, she doesn't cry, but she also hasn't said anything since they explained in hushed tones outside the lesbian bar.

Across from them, Zelda's pale. She's got her own arms wrapped around her chest and leans away from Bucky, looking like she'll shatter if anyone touches her.

The four of them stagger onto the street like they’re soldiers, war-weary and shell-shocked. No one says anything until Bucky offers to walk Zelda back to her great aunt’s house and Steve's so relieved when she just shakes her head in response. With the four of them together, there is protection. To anyone looking, they are two perfectly respectable couples (well, one and a half perfectly respectable couples and Steve). Any noisy neighbors watching them come home might be scandalized by the two women going unsupervised into the apartment of a couple fellas, but its not the kind of scandal that'll see anyone in handcuffs sitting out on the curb.

"Who?" asks Rachel, when Steve gets her settled on the sofa with Zelda and Bucky gets a glass of whiskey in her hand.

Bucky looks a little unsteady as he sinks down into the chair across from them. Steve perches on the arm of Bucky's chair, somewhat comforted by the heat of Bucky's shoulder, leaning into his side. Steve rests an arm across Bucky's shoulders and takes a deep breath.

"Besides Sully?" Steve says. Rachel flinches over the name. "They got Raul."

Rachel let’s out a little sob and covers her mouth. Zelda crosses her arms tight over her chest, curling into herself and hunching her shoulders.

"And the guy that lives out in Jersey, only comes in about once a month when he's got business in the city," Bucky says. "Don't remember his name."

"That could be Leo," Rachel murmurs. "Or Gustav."

"Gustav's the Swede right?" Bucky says. "Not him. Must be Leo."

"He's got six children," Rachel murmurs. "The youngest is five months old. He was such a proud papa, last time he was in. Who else?"

"Toby's new sweetheart," Steve says.

"Mark’s only seventeen!" Rachel shouts, like she's not only nineteen. But from the day Steve met her, she's always seemed older. Maybe that's just the result of her losing so much so young, running away from home when she was _so young_.

God, and now she's lost Sully, too.

"How’d this happen?" Zelda whispers. Her gaze is far off and blank. "Sully had a friend with the liquor board? Or in the local police precinct, right? That's why he didn't get shut down by Mayor LaGuardia before the world's fair in '39? So what happened to that protection?"

"I don't know," Rachel murmurs. "They're probably going to get in touch with Sully's wife. This is a nightmare."

"Sully's got a _wife_?" Steve asks, shocked.

Rachel nods, her bottom lip trembling. "He hasn't seen her in years. He's got a kid, too. A son."

The girls spend the night, taking Steve's bed. It’s the first time they’ve separated the mattresses in years. With the lights out, Steve clings to Bucky, his head on Bucky's chest, tucked right under Bucky's chin. Bucky clings back. No one says anything until morning, but Steve's pretty sure nobody sleeps either.

* * *

"It's not so bad." Steve lies through his teeth.

Rachel simply glares at him, tugging the box from his arms and dropping it unceremoniously on the cot in the corner. She looks around with her nose in the air.

Honestly, the small room is nicer than some places he and Bucky stayed right after they left the Barnes' house, but Rachel's used to her own room in an apartment that took up a whole floor of Sully's building. She's used to big windows to let the light in and a bathroom right there in her apartment. She's used to a full kitchen at her disposal, not a hot plate instead of a stove.

"You better marry me soon and take me away from here, Steven," she mutters, kicking at the cot until its pressed up against the wall.

Steve cracks a smile and squeezes her hand before retreating down the stairs to get another box. She's been making jokes like that a more often since Sully's arrest, but Steve knows she's more serious than ever, about getting married. Steve would honestly do it tomorrow, if Zelda and Bucky would get on board.

He’s overheard a whispered argument or two, with Rachel insisting that getting married is the best way to stay safe now and Zelda arguing the opposite, still too terrified from what happened to Sully to commit to a lifetime of queerness and a loving marriage.

For days after his arrest, Rachel worked to get answers. Near the beginning, they actually let her see Sully, but then his wife showed up and put the kibosh on that right quick. Raul got out okay, although he’s made himself scarce around the neighborhood, and they never did find out much about the others. With Sully's wife on the scene, she encouraged them to send Sully to a mental ward instead of jail, but they’ve got no proof of Sully doing anything queer. The only laws he’s broken involve running a business that caters to queer folks and if he ends up serving time, it should only be a couple years.

Now, there's nothing to be done but help Rachel move into the tiny room above Frank's tailor shop in Williamsburg. She couldn’t stay at Sully’s, not after his wife showed up there, too.

“We’ll have you over for dinner all the time,” Steve says, as Rachel gazes around the room and fights tears.

“More like I’ll commandeer your kitchen and cook you dinner all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve pulls her into a hug. “You’re always welcome. Anytime. All the time.”

* * *

Zelda leaves the day after the Nazis start their invasion of the Soviet Union.

Steve’s sitting outside on the front stoop, waiting for Bucky to get off work and reading all about the invasion in _The Eagle_ when Rachel appears before him, all pale and stunned.

“Oh no.” Steve gapes up at her. “What happened _now_?”

Rachel lets out a humorless laugh and collapses next to him on the stoop. She loops her arm through his, burying her face in his shoulder.

“Rach?” His voice wavers.

She breathes deep and even. “Zelda left.”

“Oh.” His first reaction is relief, that she isn’t here telling him that Sully died in a cell or something terrible happened to another Brooklyn Jew. This doesn’t seem like the world ending all over again, and ain’t exactly a shock, given how scarce Zelda’s been since Sully got shut down and locked up.

Except it _is_ world ending, for Rachel.

“Oh,” he says again, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Oh, Rachel. I’m so sorry.”

They sit outside for a while, until Bucky comes home to fuss over them both huddled together and looking pathetic. Rachel only starts talking when they get two drinks in her. She doesn’t sob all over Steve shirt, like she did over and over in the weeks after they took Sully away. Now she’s too shocked to cry.

She tells them about how hard its been since Sully, how she’s just crying all the time while Zelda seemed to be doing her best to pretend like it never happened, like the bar never existed. She tells them how Zelda’s been quiet, withdrawn. How she never lets Rachel spend the night anymore. How there’s a man at the hospital, a doctor, that’s been trying to take Zelda out for ages.

“She was messing around on you?” demands Steve. He’s halfway out of his seat, ready to march across town to give Zelda a piece of his mind, but Bucky shoves him back down into his chair and Rachel shakes her head.

“No, no.” Rachel blows her nose in a handkerchief, finally losing some of that stoic edge as she explains. “Nothing like that. It’s just. She’s gonna give it a shot, with this fella. The doctor. She likes him, even if she doesn’t love him. That’s what she said. He’s not bad company, and being married to him would be alright. She thinks he’ll let her keep working.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters.

“But, but, but.” Steve sputters, indignant, and has to take a few breaths to gather his thoughts. “But what kind of life is that? A loveless life? A life that’s a lie.”

Rachel’s the girl that marched up to him and announced her queerness within five minutes of knowing him, all proud and tall and sure of herself. Maybe even a couple months ago, when she still had a home with Sully, she’d be as indignant as Steve.

Now she simply shrugs. “It’s a safe life,” she whispers. “Zelda wants children and security, neither of which I can give her. I can’t be mad at her about that, Steve. I hope she gets it. She loves me, she said so, but she doesn’t want this life.”

“Oh, Rachel,” Steve murmurs, as she finally starts crying. She hides her face in Steve’s shirt and sobs.

“I’m making matzo ball soup,” Bucky decides.

Rachel lets out a grateful laugh and nods. She is always saying that things never look so dire with a belly full of matzo ball soup.

“People leave,” Rachel says after dinner. They’re getting her settled on the sofa, insisting she stay, neighborhood opinions be damned. Rachel’s drowning in an oversized shirt of Bucky’s. She’s never looked so fragile. “People leave. You’d think I’d be used to it now, huh?”

“We ain’t going anywhere,” Steve promises, rubbing her back.

“Yeah.” Rachel shrugs. “Thing is, with the draft going on, that’s not exactly a promise you can keep, bubbeleh. And don’t even try to convince me that you won’t be enlisting the moment the US finally ends up joining this war, official like.”

Steve doesn’t sleep much, just clings to Bucky like his life depends on it.

* * *

Through the summer, Steve returns to his normal level of health. He’s tired all the time and achy, his stomach as sensitive as always and lungs wheezing, but it’s all the usual. Steve learned to live with that a long time ago. It’s bearable, even a relief, after spending the first half of the year in a near constant state of illness.

It does unfortunately mean he and Bucky have got no excuses for getting outta family time with the Barnes. Going over there after church for dinner becomes a decidedly less pleasant affair after Bucky has to tell his mother that he and Zelda are finished.  

He manages to put it off for a couple months, getting through his birthday party with pretty lies about Zelda working extra hard at the hospital, but in October Winnie asks him, straight to his face, if he’s still seeing Zelda. Rachel’s sitting right there when he bumbles his way through telling his mother that they’ve split. She’s got to excuse herself from the table for a good cry in the bathroom.

Rachel comes to all Barnes Family Events now, except for Mass. Mostly, Steve doesn’t like leaving her on her own for any length of time, but its good cover, too. Bucky might’ve failed to get a wife, but Winnie’s still got hope for Steve. It’s enough to get them through Thanksgiving without incident.

And then it’s December again. The final month of ’41 arrives with a fresh blanket of snow and a letter sitting on their table/bathtub when Steve gets home from teaching a class at the art center.

“What’s that?” Steve’s hands are shaking. He doesn’t need Bucky to tell him. It’s spelled out for Steve, written plain as day on Bucky’s pale, drawn face.

“Just read it.”

Steve sinks into a chair at the table, reaching out for the letter on folded neatly on the table, and Bucky stands, too jittery to sit.

"This can't be right." Steve reads the letter for the fifth time and then blinks up at Bucky. He's pacing the length of their kitchen now, gnawing on her thumbnail.

"Reporting December 27th," Bucky replies. "They're giving me through the holiday, at least."

"This can't be right."

"Of course its right." Bucky stops in front of Steve. "Look, it’s got the army seal and everything. All typed up and official."

"But, but—“ Steve sputters and runs both his hands through his hair. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe. His heart’s racing, but it’s not just his arrhythmia. It's terror. It's everything in him screaming, _no, no, no_. "They can't just _take_ you."

Bucky looks at him like he's the greatest of idiots. "Course they can! Steve, we put our names in for the draft together last year! Frankly, I got lucky it took them this long."

"Bucky." Steve bites his lips together to keep from crying, but Bucky crouches in front of him anyway, resting his chin on Steve's knees. His hand comes up to cradle Steve's jaw and Steve lets out a little sob.

"You'll be fine," Bucky whispers. "I'll send you my pay so you can cover the rent. I'm not sure if I'll be pulling down what I get at the refinery, but it should be enough, especially since you don't gotta worry about feeding me. Rachel promised to make sure you eat, to make sure to look after you when you're sick. She's gonna go to Ma, if it gets really bad."

Steve jerks away from Bucky's hands, pushes Bucky away so hard he falls back to sit on his ass.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Steve demands. He gets up to take his turn pacing around the kitchen.

Bucky says something in reply, but Steve's got his good ear turned away. Fuck his stupid ears. He can't even stomp around in rage properly, can't even fight with Bucky properly, when it takes only a couple feet of distance and the wrong angle to prevent Steve from even hearing Bucky's reply.

Seething, Steve stomps closer to Bucky, sticking his neck out and tilting his good ear in Bucky's direction. It's an old tell, a silent signal that Bucky's gotta repeat himself.

"I said," Bucky gets to his feet with an infuriating amount of grace and calm, "nothing's wrong with me. Just trying to be practical about this."

"I don't need you to take care of me."

Its like they're back in time five years, before Steve realized that they take care of each other. Before he decided that it was all right if Bucky fussed over him, so long as he could fuss over Bucky in return.

They've been partners for a long time now, taking care of each other as naturally as breathing. Of course Bucky's gonna fret about disturbing the life they've carved out for themselves. Of course Bucky's gonna want to give Steve money to make sure their home stays stable.

And Steve should just say, “ _Sure, Buck, that'll work,"_ because Bucky's going to the army and he'll breathe easier if he doesn't have to worry about Steve getting thrown out of their place.

He opens his mouth to apologize, but Bucky starts hollering before he can and Steve gets mad all over again because its easier than being _terrified_.

"Really? We're back to that fucking horseshit? What the fuck are you _doing_ , Steve?"

"What the fuck am _I_ doing? What the fuck are _you_ doing? You're going to basic at the end of the month and instead of taking care of yourself you’re plotting with Rachel? And what the hell are you doing telling Rachel this before you tell me, huh?"

Bucky throws his hands up in the air and starts up with the pacing again. He's practically purple in the face with anger and frustration, but he still makes sure that Steve can hear him when he yells back.

"Maybe I knew she'd just listen to me talk for five minutes instead of immediately getting her back up and flipping her lid!"

"I ain't flipping anything!" Steve yells back. The neighbors are gonna be banging on their walls and demanding that they shut it any moment now, but Steve doesn't care. Steve is so goddamn angry, and not really at Bucky, but even knowing that this is not the right outlet for that anger, he can't stop. "Just need to remind you that I'm capable of taking care of myself! I ain't you wife. You should be worrying about you, not me!"

"This is how I take care of myself, you ass!" Bucky stomps his feet and waves his hands around his head. "It's the same thing, taking care of me, taking care of you. I need you to be okay when I leave. How do you still not fucking get that, after all these goddamn years? Fuck you, Rogers." Bucky retreats, fleeing to their bedroom with his arms crossed over his chest,

The fight drains out of Steve so quick it leaves him wobbly on his feet. He bounds after Bucky, catching the door when Bucky tries to slam it shut. The force of it will leave a bruise on his forearm, but he deserves the pain and more, for the way he's been carrying on since he read the letter. No wonder Bucky told Rachel first. She probably held his hand and looked at him with those big, brown, understanding eyes of hers. She probably made him eat his weight in matzo ball soup.

"I'm sorry." Steve throws his arms around Bucky's neck, practically crawling up his body just to be a little closer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bucky sighs and hesitates only for a second before returning the embrace. He lifts Steve off his feet. "You should be sorry, you goddamn punk."

"You might not know this about me," Steve says, "but I don't handle being scared very well."

Bucky snorts and presses his nose into Steve's hair. "I might've figured that out back when you were getting into three fights a day after your ma got sick. You're like a feral cat backed into a corner, you know that?"

"So I'd rather lash out than cower," Steve says. "But you're not who I want to fight."

"Well, I am a more convenient target than Hitler or the US Army."

"Come lie down with me."

So the end up in bed, on their sides and facing each other. Between their bodies, Steve tangles their fingers together and under the blankets Bucky gets his knee between Steve's legs.

"I love you so much," Bucky says. "That means I'm allowed to worry about you, don't it?"

"Yeah," Steve replies. "And I get to worry about you back."

"I think I'll do okay in the army."

"Sure you will, Buck. You'll charm your way into running the place as fast as anything. And you're pretty good at following orders. We might need to practice that a bit before you go, to make sure you're used to doing what you're told."

Bucky laughs. "Is that a sex thing, Rogers? Are you trying to prepare me for the army with sodomy? The kinda sodomy where you boss me around incessantly?"

Steve shrugs, but his blush answers for him.

"I'll let Rachel feed me," he whispers. It feels like a vow, a promise, a commitment to Bucky rather than just assurances that he'll take care of himself while Bucky's gone. "All the time, I'll let her feed me. And I won't just shutter myself away in the apartment. I’ll go visit Peter in Harlem. I'll go to Assumption every Sunday and have dinner with your family. I'll let Winnie feed me, too. I'll take Beck to the movies and the twins to Coney Island. At the first sniffle, I'll take it easy. I'll sleep more and tell Rachel when I’m feeling under the weather, and if it gets worse I'll let her and your ma take care of me, or I'll go to the doctor. When you send me money, I'll use what I need for rent and put the rest under the mattress for a rainy day. Everything here's gonna be fine, Buck. We've got a good thing going on, and this life of ours will still be here when you get back."

There’s no war yet. Bucky will go in, do his time, and come back. Sure, him being in the Army will change things, but Steve won't let it ruin what they've built together, what they feel for each other.

"I don't want to go," Bucky murmurs. He looks so ashamed.

Steve hides a flinch, because that statement smarts a little. If their positions were reversed, Steve would be rearing to go, would feel privileged to serve. He refuses to resent Bucky for his healthy, fit-to-be-a-solider body and his lack of gratitude for the opportunity to hopefully carry out some justice. He refuses to be jealous of Bucky, when he's so scared and admitting he doesn't want to go.

"I don't want you to go either," Steve agrees, reaching out to trace Bucky's cheekbone with his thumb. "But you'll be fine, Buck. We'll be fine."

"There ain't even a war yet." Bucky opens his eyes and sits up a little, resting with his head propped on his elbow. "I'll just be off leaning how to make a bed with tight corners and that's all. Hell, maybe I'll even come back an even better shot and never even have to shoot anybody. Maybe I'll be able to out shoot Uncle Corman!"

Steve takes a deep breath, and even though he’s been telling himself that there ain’t even a war yet, it feels like a lie. He doesn’t believe it when Bucky says it, either, but Bucky needs him to go a long with this joke right now.

"All the training in the world ain't gonna have you out shooting Corman," Steve manages. "The man is a machine. I think he's something outta your pulps, Buck. Maybe that steady arm of his is made of metal."

"Darn, and I've just got these two fleshy things weighing me down."

"It's a real shame."

Bucky laughs for a second, before he's back to grimacing. He flips over, burying his face in his pillow and muttering indistinctly.

"What?" asks Steve, poking him in the back.

"I've gotta tell Tateh. And Ma. But Tateh's gonna be worse."

Steve rubs his back. "Yeah."

"God, he'll probably do something horrifying. Like cry."

"Probably."

Bucky flips over again, on his back now and looking up at Steve, his eyes so wide and so blue. He looks young like this, eyes big and mouth slack, hair messy over his forehead. He looks too young for war, too perfect.

"You'll come with me, right?"

"Sure, pal. I'll always come with you."

* * *

On December 7th, 1941, Bucky gets sent home from work early. They shut down production of the whole refinery for the afternoon, and Bucky comes straight home.

He doesn't say anything when he sees Steve and Rachel huddled together on the sofa, just kicks off his shoes and squeezes in next to Steve. Steve pulled their thickest, softest blanket from their beds, and he situates it over Bucky's knees now, making sure he's warm. Underneath the blankets, he's got Rachel squeezing one hand and he takes Bucky's with his other.

The radio drones on, and hasn't said anything new in hours, but they all listen anyway. On the table are a variety of afternoon papers that also lack reliable information.

Steve should be feeling more _something_ – anger, fear, despair, resolve – but he's too shocked to do anything but sit in silence, holding his favorite peoples’ hands, listening to the same information filter through the airwaves.

This shouldn't be such a surprise. Steve's been calling a situation just like this inevitable for years. How often as he said that the ocean separating them wouldn't keep America isolated from the war? How often has him insisted that eventually America would join in? They've certainly taken the steps, from neutrality to instating conscription to Lend Lease.

But Steve never thought it would Japan, despite their conquering in Asia and the tension with America over trade. And he really never ever thought it would be on American soil.

At some point, Rachel decides they all need to eat and she hustles to the kitchen, the sounds of cabinets opening and closing joining the monotone of the radio.

Steve can’t look Bucky in the eye. Just a handful of days ago, he promised to stay safe, to take care of himself, and to make sure Bucky has a home to come back to. But a handful of days ago, the war was still a far away thing, and despite all Steve’s big talk, he never truly believed it would touch American shores. Steve made Bucky a promise, but he can’t keep it, not now.

Everything’s different than it was this morning, and there’s no way Steve can sit safe at home with Bucky going to war. This has always been bigger than him and Bucky, justice always is, and now its here and Steve can't do _nothing_.

But Bucky is so pale. And Rachel is so quiet. And Steve’s hands are shaking.

Tomorrow. He’ll go down to enlist tomorrow. For today, they can cling to the small bit of safety they have left and stay home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last full length chapter, and then a small epilogue. The response to this story has made me so very happy, so thanks for that.
> 
> I should also probably apologize in advance for this one, too...

Beck dies on a Tuesday. It should not be a surprise.

Steve’s had a year to prepare for this moment. Before he even got out of the car in Brooklyn that first time, Rachel warned him that this was coming. _Rebecca’s sick_ , she said, and Steve’s had months and months of hearing Beck cough and wheeze to know that it’s true. Beck’s been so sick.

She ended up in the hospital when Steve was off on another continent, with blood splattered on his face, and that bout of bronchitis got better, but Beck stayed weak. She ate less, slept less. Somehow, despite her labored breathing and lack of appetite, she finished her book, and then had another good month before she got sick again.

Pneumonia, this time, and still, somehow, Steve is surprised when she finally goes.

She let them take her to the hospital at first, but refused to stay after it became clear she wasn’t getting better. She said, “I always wanted to die in my own home,” so they brought her back to the apartment, set up a hospital bed in the living room, and waited.

Steve has days, sitting around in the living room with Rachel as Beck’s body shuts down, to get used to the idea of Beck dying but he doesn’t. She stays so sharp, so lucid and aware, right until the very end. She tells Steve she loves him, and then whispers something in Rachel’s ear that has her choking out a sob and whispering back.

“I’m gonna shut my eyes now,” Beck says, her voice so painfully thin. She sleeps and they watch her chest move, her lungs struggling for each breath. Mia’s there, quietly checking Beck’s vitals, and nodding at them as she wipes away tears. Anytime, now.

Still, it takes hours, well into the night, when Steve watches Beck’s chest stop moving, hears her take her last, wheezing breath.

“Are you sure?” Rachel keeps saying, staring intently at her wife, still holding her hand. “Her chest moved. Steve, don’t you see her breathing? Are you sure? I swear I just saw her chest move.”

Mia is sure. She murmurs a time of death and quietly excuses herself to make whatever calls she’s gotta make. Steve’s sure, too, but he’s surprised into silence, dumbfounded and utterly baffled by the notion of Beck being _gone_.

He’s seen death, he knows death, but in his experience it’s usually quicker, louder, bloodier, accompanied by wailing mortars and desperate screams.   Beck’s peaceful slide into death doesn’t make sense to him, and he keeps staring at Beck’s still chest, trying to believe it.

In the last year, Beck’s been such a constant, one of his touchstones to his old life before the war, and Steve couldn’t do anything for her. He just sat close, listened her babble some drug-induced pleasantries, and watched her die. So painfully useless, just like when he let her brother fall.

“Steve?” Rachel whispers as she finally lets go of Beck’s hand. “Cover her, please, I can’t. Oh, God.”

She starts murmuring a prayer in Hebrew, and Steve does as she says, getting one last look at Beck’s face before pulling up the sheet.

* * *

After the funeral, they go back to the apartment and Rachel does not leave for seven days. She recites the same prayer three times a day, and accepts a small, steady stream of mourners. Steve’s heard stories about most of these people, but its so odd to meeting them now that Beck’s gone.

There’s Mel, the man who took over running Rachel clothing company when she retired twenty-five years ago, and a handful of Frank’s children and grandchildren. There’s people who spent years of their youth in the home and people who took Beck’s classes back when she was still teaching. A whole horde of Buchanans even show up – descendants of Bucky’s many uncles – but they give Steve space when it becomes clear that their presence overwhelms him.

Tony brings Beck’s favorite kind of whiskey and gets weepy when he leads a toast. Natasha brings pie. Clint brings his dog, and Rachel’s not been saying much to anyone but she spends a solid hour with her hands in Lucky’s fur.

No one stays long and Steve can always breathe a little easier when the apartment empties out again. When it’s just the two of them, Rachel manages to talk a little more. They eat an excessive amount of matzo ball soup.

On day eight, Rachel explains that they’ve got through Shiva, even though Steve somehow missed that they were doing that at all. They sit together on the couch and Rachel says, “It was more for me, than for Beck. She wasn’t all that Jewish, but she wasn’t all that Catholic either and she indulged me plenty. She’d have indulged this, too.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as she sniffles into a handkerchief.

She turns to look up at him, her big brown eyes red rimmed and wet. “What do we do now?” she asks.

“I’ve got no earthly idea,” Steve replies.

So they sit on the couch, for lack of anything better to do. Rachel bawls and soaks the front of his t-shirt.   Steve holds her, feeling more useless than he did in 1941, when everything just kept going from bad to worse to catastrophic.

Beck’s gone and Steve’s got no earthly idea what to do next.

* * *

SHIELD waits a respectful two months after Beck dies – a whole two weeks after the anniversary of the Chitauri – to ask again.   Steve says yes before Agent Hill even gets her whole request out, and they blink at each other for a moment, both equally surprised by his quick answer.

“You are aware that this would require a move to DC,” she says, like she’s trying to talk him out of it.

“I know.”

“And it would be full time. You’ll have some say in the selection of your missions and you’d lead the strike team, but for the most part orders are going to come right from Director Fury.”

“I know.”

Agent Hill frowns up at him before finally nodding. “Okay. Great. When can you start?”

Steve bites his cheek to keep from saying, “ _Tomorrow. Please, give me something useful to do. Give me someone I can actually save.”_

He talked to Rachel about the possibility of joining SHEILD for real, told her after Agent Hill first approached him with the job offer, but that was all back when Beck was still alive. “You want to take it,” she said then, after studying his face for an inordinately long time. When he told her he didn’t know, he meant it, but Beck’s gone now and Steve’s back to being desperate for distraction, for purpose, for people he can actually help.

“I’m gonna need at least a couple weeks,” he tells Hill.

“Why don’t you take until the end of the month? We’ll expect to see you in DC on the 1st.”

* * *

Steve doesn’t have much stuff, but Rachel seems determined to see him off with at least a couple boxes full of personal items. She insists that he pack up all the clothes he’s accumulated in the last year, and then gives him a pie tin and some extra silverware. He lets her fuss, lets her pack, until she tries to take his mother’s landscapes off the walls.

“No.” Steve wraps his fingers around Rachel’s tiny hands as she reaches up towards the paintings.

“But they’re your mother’s,” she says, pouting at him. “They’re _yours_.”

“Rachel, they’re giving me a bland, modern box to live in. It’s just gonna be somewhere to sleep between missions. My ma’s paintings belong here, okay? Besides, what am I gonna look at when I come home for a visit if you take them down?”

Rachel laughs, a few tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “You better come home, every chance you get.”

“I will.”

“I mean it, Steven. Even if it’s just a day, you’ll get on that train or take your motorcycle. You’ll brave the four-hour trip or you take a helicopter or something. You come home.”

Steve gets a little teary-eyed himself. “I will. Hey, that’s enough packing for now. Lets go sit on the balcony.”

“Mia has ice tea in the refrigerator.”

So they settle on the balcony with glasses of ice tea and fresh lemon slices. Rachel closes her eyes and tilts her face towards the sun.

“We were together for sixty-eight years, you know,” she says.

“1945, huh?”

“Eventful year, that 1945.” Rachel smiles. “It was right after you died, right before Germany surrendered. And I swear, right up until it happened I thought she hated me. Even though she’d stuck with me like glue since you left for the front.”

“She did?”

“Dragged me along to all the Barnes family events, made sure I wasn’t alone.” Rachel shakes her head and laughs. “I was so blind.”

“Hey, you figured it out eventually.”

“Beck figured it out _first_.”

“She always was the brains of the unit.”

Rachel laughs again. When she wipes the tears from her eyes, Steve doesn’t mention it. She drinks her tea and closes her eyes, tilting her face towards the sun.

“I wish her book didn’t end with Buck and I dying,” Steve says. “I never did get the whole story of how you two ended up together and I’d like the full autobiographic version of your lives, you know? Written in Beck’s own words.”

“Oh, she wrote that years ago.”

“What?” Steve sits up a little taller and stares at Rachel, but she’s in no hurry to open her eyes.

“ _End of the Line_ , that’s the abridged version. It started off as a memoir, Beck’s life story, but the whole thing ended up being the size of about four books put together. It’s part Barnes family history and part social commentary, too, but she decided to narrow her focus to you and Buck. The original manuscript is somewhere around here. You can read it if you want.”

“Huh,” says Steve and then he goes back to drinking his ice tea. The sun sets and Rachel starts to shiver, so they go inside. She sits at the kitchen table while Steve gets a casserole Mia made into the oven for dinner.

This time next week, Steve will be in DC and Rachel will be on her own for dinner. Rachel’s made it very clear, from pretty much the moment Beck died, that she didn’t want Steve hanging around, turning into Rachel’s caregiver and putting his own life on hold. But Steve still feels so guilty. Even if he’ll be doing good, keeping people safe, keeping people free, Rachel will be on her own.

“Have you thought about coming with me?” he asks.

Rachel pauses with a fork halfway to her mouth. She raises an eyebrow at him.

“You said you liked the place where Peggy lives, right? Well, you could live there. With Peggy. I’m gonna visit Peggy all the time and that way you’d be there, too.” He says it all in a rush, his words getting progressively more desperate as he continues and by the end he’s blushing.

“Bubbeleh.” She sets down her fork and reaches out to cover his hand with her on the table. “I’m staying here.”

“Okay.” He sounds very small.

“They say you’re not supposed to make any big decisions for a year, after you lose your spouse, so I’m staying here.”

Steve laughs a little. “Who is this _they_?”

“Well, Beck told me. There’s been studies on, apparently. She made me promise not to do anything rash.”

Rebecca really did all she could to prepare them both for her death. Steve wonders if Rachel wakes up every morning, surprised that Beck’s gone like Steve is.

“Ask me again in a year,” Rachel says. She pats his hand twice and goes back to eating. “This is not 1942, Steve. You aren’t leaving me all on my own. I’ve spent decades building a life here, and Beck might be gone but I’m not alone. I’ve got Mia and the home and a bunch of grown up kids who used to live here. I’ve even got friends, although I admit I haven’t seen much of them, with Beck needing to be home so much these last few years. You don’t need to feel guilty for leaving, if leaving’s what you need to do.”

“It is,” Steve admits, although he still can’t fully explain why to himself. He’s almost desperate to get to DC, to throw himself back into the military and a life he got used to during the war.

“You’re not marching into Nazi territory,” Rachel reminds him. “You’re going to DC. And you’ll come home to visit and if you think I won’t be calling you every single day to talk your ear off, well, I’ve got news for you, bubbeleh.”

Steve lets out a big breath, relaxing back into his chair. “I love you, Rachel.”

“I love you too, Steve. Eat your supper.”

And somehow, even though his Ma’s landscapes stay on Rachel’s hallway walls, when Steve moves to DC he unearths a photograph that used to sit on the mantel of him, Rachel, and Bucky, hanging out at a bar a long, long time ago.

* * *

On his first day as a commander of his own strike unit of SHEILD agents, the intercom in his apartment buzzes just as he’s pulling on his jacket and patting down his pockets for the keys to his bike.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Yes, this is Senior Assist, a ride service for the elderly.” Natasha’s voice crackles over the speaker. “I’m here to pick up Old Man Rogers.”

He rolls his eyes. “Funny.”

“Clint thinks so.”

“Clint has a terrible sense of humor.”

“ _Hey_!” Clint yells in the background and Natasha laughs before the speaker goes quiet. He takes the stairs, jumping whole landings and making it to the ground floor in a matter of seconds.

Natasha is leaning against a sleek black sports car, parked on the curb. Clint’s in the backseat, hanging his head out the window like he’s Lucky. Steve pauses for a minute on the sidewalk, just to look at them.

Last night he went to sleep convinced that this was a bad call, that he should just give up on serving his country and go back home to Rachel, but looking at Natasha and Clint is reassuring.

This is where he’s supposed to be. He’s almost certain.

“Good morning, Captain.” Natasha opens the door for him with a flourish, bowing as he gets in the car and making him laugh.

“We got you coffee, boss,” Clint says, pointing towards the cup holder.

“I didn’t know you’d be joining the team, Barton,” Steve replies as Natasha slides into the drivers seat.

“Eh.” He shrugs. “I’m mostly here for moral support. I’ll only be around sometimes.”

Steve nods and sips his coffee while Natasha pulls out into traffic. The drive to the Triskelion is quiet. It takes longer than the subway would, and is less soothing than his bike, but he appreciates the company.

His palms are sweaty, his stomach in knots, and he logically he knows that he’ll be fine. He’s got plenty of experience leading elite units, but he’s nervous anyway. Like it’s the first day of art school or the first morning at Camp Lehigh.

In his pocket, his phone buzzes and he grins when he sees a message from Rachel. _Have a good first day, bubbeleh. You’ll be great!!!!_ Now that he lives in DC, he’s especially thankful that the kids at the home taught Rachel to text message.

The Triskelion is as modern and intimidating as its always been, shinny and metallic, with massive windows and grey floors. Inside its buzzing with activity, everyone walking straight and tall, looking like they’re military. Everyone has purpose. Everyone is useful.

“Hey,” says Natasha, holding the elevator open for him. “You ready for this?”

Steve closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. He takes a deep breath and remembers what its like to be Captain America. When he opens his eyes, he nods at Natasha and stands up a little straighter.

“I’m ready,” he says, and for the first time in a long time, he actually believes it.

* * *

 

**1942**

After Bucky leaves for basic, Steve can't stand the stillness of their apartment. Three times, he packs up all his art supplies, determined to head to Sully's for the day, and three times he's hallway down the block when he remembers that Sully's and its proprietor are gone, the both of them locked up tight.

The fourth time it happens, Steve fights the urge to go home and just stay in bed all day, ready to cower in the face of sheer frustration and missing Bucky. Instead, he gets on a trolley for Williamsburg.

It's not far to ride, but Steve deeply resents that it requires public transportation to go see Rachel. He wants her back behind the bar, within walking distance and back home where she’s free with her smile and quick to laugh.  

Really, he should just move her into his and Bucky's place. It's not like Bucky's using his bed.

The morning Bucky left for basic, they rearranged the furniture in the bedroom, pushing their beds to opposite walls with the dresser in between them. Bucky said, "Steve," in that soft, terrible, _heartbreaking_ way, when he caught Steve staring at the pushed apart beds, and Steve shrugged off Bucky's warm hand on his shoulder and left the room to keep himself from crying.

But after they train him up, Bucky's hopeful that they'll send him home, at least for a minute. They'll need the beds then, for however long Bucky's allowed to stay.

Maybe after he gets shipped over seas – and Steve bites his cheek bloody, to keep from crying on the trolley at the thought of Bucky overseas – he'll invite Rachel to be his roommate.

Except the old bitties on the first floor would definitely have something to say about Steve moving in his sweetheart without marrying her first. Then the whole neighborhood will get to talking nasty about Rachel and her lack of virtue.

Maybe they should just get married, like Rachel always said they should. They'll get married, and maybe Bucky will finally stop telling Steve to go out with girls. " _Try and find a wife while I'm gone, okay_?" Bucky kept saying in the days before he got on the train. " _Just remember that you have options_."

Steve should definitely just marry Rachel. That'll shut Bucky up once and for all.

Although it’s been weeks since he left, Steve still hasn't got a letter. Not a single one. He'd read pages full of Bucky badgering him about taking out girls, just to hold a little proof between his hands that Bucky's still out there somewhere.

He's so deep in his head that he nearly misses his trolley stop, and has to scramble to make it out the doors, smacking his portfolio into innocent passengers as he goes.  

The bell above the door rings out when Steve opens it, stepping into Frank's shop. Rachel's leaning against the front desk, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to a customer, a pretty blonde who’s halfway through pulling on her jacket and gloves.

Rachel has a smile for him like she always does, but its small and sad. It’s been small and sad since they lost Sully. It was totally nonexistent for awhile, after Zelda left.

“Hi,” Steve says, rubbing his hands together as he tries to warm up. “Mind if I work here today?”

“Have a seat.” Rachel gestures towards the front desk with her cigarette and then seems to remember that Steve’s lungs don’t do so well around smoke. She rushes to put it out in a nearby ashtray. “Bonnie, this is my friend, Steve. Steve, meet Bonnie Lewis.”

“Ma’am.” Steve nods and takes off his coat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, polite as anything. But she barely glances at him, too busy pulling on her own gloves as she gets ready to step out into the frozen hell that is Brooklyn in February. “So I’ll be in at the end of the week for a final fitting. That’ll be with you, right?”

“Should be,” Rachel replies, scribbling a note in the datebook.

“I’d really rather you to Mr. Morelli.”

“Alright, it’ll be me. Have a good week, Bonnie.”

Bonnie beams at Rachel as she leaves, the bell dinging above the door. Steve dumps his coat on a chair, wishing more than anything for Rachel to grin at him and say, “ _So, do you think she’s queer_?” But Rachel’s gone from seeing lesbians on every corner to complete silence on the subject.

Rachel’s developed that shame in being queer rather late in life, and it might Steve’s least favorite consequence of everything that happened last year, besides Bucky going to basic.

“How’re things?” Rachel asks as Steve gets settled at the front desk. He’s showed up here enough times in the last month that Rachel no longer feels obligated to lecture him on the rules. If a customer shows up, he’s got to be nice and professional, before immediately going to get Rachel or Frank from the back. He’s absolutely not allowed to try to talk to any customers about tailoring or prices or _anything_.

“Fine,” Steve replies, sighing.

Rachel gives him a look and Steve can admit that the sigh was a bit dramatic, but its freezing out there and Bucky hasn’t written him a letter and yesterday he used a different name to try enlisting a recruitment center in the Bronx. 4F again, unfit for service.

“I thought I’d have a letter from Bucky by now, is all,” Steve confesses.

“Oh!” Rachel leaps into action. She starts refilling through the top drawer of the desk and Steve’s got no idea what’s going on, but it’s a relief to see a little bit of Rachel’s spark. She’s even smiling, big and wide and enthusiastic. “Ah!” She gives a celebratory little shout when she emerges with a letter.

“What?”

“This came with mail for the shop yesterday. Sorry I opened it, but it _is_ addressed to me, aftterall, so you’ll have to forgive me.”

Steve frowns, taking the letter. He studies Rachel’s name on the front, written in Bucky’s careful lettering.

“He wrote you?” Steve demands, scowling with everything he’s got at Rachel even though its Bucky he’s really mad yet.

Rachel grins a little bigger. “Just read it.”

Frowning all the while, Steve gets the letter out of the envelope. It’s thick, at least four pages front and back, all written in Bucky’s neat hand. Steve’s the artist, but Bucky’s one with the handwriting that might as well be calligraphy.

Steve reads about three sentences before his ears turn red, his blush burning in his cheeks. “This is a love letter,” he whispers.

Rachel laughs again. She’s so warm and bright, her eyes twinkling, and she looks so much like her old cheerful self that Steve stops being _mortified_ that Rachel read these words.  

“It’s a clever trick, isn’t it?” she says, delighted. “With the screeners, he can’t exactly go writing stuff like that to his best pal Steve. I wonder if he’ll address his letters meant for me to you.”

Shrugging, Steve goes back to his letter. This love letter, filled with all of Bucky’s longing, is such a goddamn relief, given that they spent Bucky’s last days at home bickering.

Steve tried to go enlist for the first time on December 13th, sneaking off while Bucky was at the gym with his father and his uncles. Bucky yelled about that for awhile, and then yelled even more when Steve told him about his determination to try again, as many times as it took. They fought some more, when Bucky suggested they take a couple of dames out, lecturing Steve about trying to settle down with a girl while Bucky was gone.

They managed to not snip at each other, on Bucky’s last night home, and Steve got to say everything he wanted to say, about loving Bucky and missing Bucky, but this letter is all love and no fight. There’s no section’s devoted to Steve’s future wife and no lectures on Steve defrauding the federal government when he tries to enlist with false names.

“Wow,” Steve murmurs, breathless. “Oh, boy.”

Rachel laughs some more. “You better get that dopey look off your face before my next customer gets in. You look ridiculous.”

“This is a _love_ letter.”

“Yeah, a dirty love letter.”

“Rachel.”

“It’s great, Steve. You better sign your reply with my name, though. Don’t go forgetting.”

While Rachel’s in the back with her next customer, Steve writes his reply. He’s not Bucky. The words don’t come nearly as easy, but the feeling is there. He neglects his art to write out four pages and signs it simply _R._ By the time Rachel’s closing up the shop, Steve’s still so happy that he drags her to the automat around the corner and treats her to dinner.

* * *

Steve shows up for Mass on Sunday and Beck crashes into him the moment he sets foot in the sanctuary. She demands to know if Steve’s heard from her brother and her whole body sorta sags with relief when Steve says he got a letter. She drags him back to the Barnes’s usual pew and he gets quizzed all over again by Winnie. He really thought Bucky’s ma would be annoyed that Steve’s heard from her son when she hasn’t, but she’s just as relieved as Beck.

After the service, Winnie leads him back to the car and lets him have the front seat while the kids climb into the back. She doesn’t even give him a polite invitation to supper at the house, just assumes that he’ll be coming over like usual.

Part of Steve thought he wouldn’t get invited at all. He was preparing for Winnie to use Bucky’s absence as an opportunity to get rid of the sickly little nuisance of her son’s best friend once and for all, but nothings different. All the Barnes treat him just the same as when Bucky’s around, treat him like family.

Before dinner, George sets up the chessboard and pours Steve a glass of wine. George seems like he’s got no desire to talk – although he listened avidly while Winnie and Beck quizzed Steve over the contents of Bucky’s letter once again when they got back to the house – but half way through the game Steve blurts out, “I tried to enlist. Twice.”

George raises his eyebrows, purses his lips, and looks painfully like his son. “Twice,” he repeats.

“I went into the city and used a fake name the second time.”

“That’s fraud, son.”

Steve shrugs and moves his rook. “I thought maybe you could give me some exercises to go through, so I have half a shot next time. Calisthenics or something.”

“What, you think enough lunges will help with that asthma?” George asks, blunt as anything.

Steve winces, but at least George ain’t going on about how its psychosomatic, all in Steve’s head, a result of his weak will. Plus, they both know that asthma is far from Steve’s only health issue.

“Never mind,” Steve mutters, making a stupid move with his knight. George takes it immediately and sips his wine.  

“You know we’re at the gym on Tuesdays,” George says as he closes in on Steve’s king. “Join us.”

“Really? Kieran ain’t gonna like that.”

The eldest Buchanan brother made it very clear that Steve just slowed them down, back when they were kids and he’d tag along with Bucky for boxing lessons. And since Bucky moved out of the house, he’s been downright hostile, making sure his kids don’t get anywhere near the perverts.

He’s by far the least pleasant of all Bucky’s uncles.

“There is a very long list of things Kieran doesn’t like,” George says. “And I stopped caring about it a very long time ago.”

“Alright.” Steve’s not even bothered that he’s going to lose this game terribly. “I’ll be there.”

* * *

The workouts don’t help much. After a couple months spent training, he takes his chances at a place in the Bronx. It’s no good. 4F, again.

* * *

When Bucky comes home at the end of the summer – after a whole heaping pile of additional training that he’s not allowed to talk about – Steve drags Rachel along to meet him at Grand Central. They get there too early, a result of Steve’s fear of being even a moment late, and Steve bounces on the balls of his feet as they wait, Rachel smirking at him the whole time.

Bucky emerges, and Steve gets breathless staring at him, so goddamn handsome in his crisp uniform, his hat on at a jaunty angle. He’s looking around frantically, gazing every which way, and Steve will call out for him, just as soon as he finds his voice.

“Hey!” Rachel shouts next to him, jumping and waving her arms above her head. “James Buchanan!”

Bucky’s head whips around, and he’s beaming so bright that Steve gets even more breathless. Bucky works his way through the crowd and immediately pulls Steve into a tight hug. It probably goes on for too long but Rachel’s right there with a hand on his back, the size of the crowed enough to make them anonymous and safe.

“Missed you,” Bucky whispers in his ear before he lets go to hug Rachel. He lifts her off her feet, swinging her in the air, and Rachel laughs.

“Lets go home,” Bucky says, as he slings one arm over Rachel’s shoulders and the other over Steve’s.

* * *

On the train to Brooklyn, Bucky invites Rachel over for dinner because it’s the polite thing to do. Rachel smirks, glances at Steve to see him glaring and shaking his head, and then smirks even more.

“You could not pay me to come over to your place tonight,” Rachel says. “But I’ll see you tomorrow for dinner with your folks.”

When they get back to the apartment, Bucky turns him around and presses him into the wall the moment Steve’s thrown the deadbolt. Steve laughs, reaching to up cradle Bucky’s face between his hands and pulling him down for their first kiss in months.

“And you were trying to invite Rachel over for dinner,” Steve scolds.

“Will you shut up and kiss me?”

So Steve kisses him, laughing into his mouth as Bucky lifts him off his feet, wrapping Steve’s legs around his waist and pressing Steve more firmly against the wall.

“How you been, for real?” Bucky asks, breathing heavy.

“Fine, honey.” Steve tosses Bucky’s hat in the direction of the couch and runs his fingers through his hair. “I told you. It’s been fine.”

“Sick?”

“Not really.”

“Not _really_?”

“I had a little bug in April. Only had me off my feet for a week and a half.” Steve kisses the frown right off Bucky’s face before he can say anything more about it. “How long do you got?”

“Five days.”

“Five whole days!” Right now, five days might as well be an eternity. It’s more time than Steve thought they’d have, and it seems like forever even with all the months they’ve been apart.

“Five days.” Bucky grins. “Then it’s on to Merry Old England!”

He uses a heinous English accent and Steve laughs so hard his whole body shakes and Bucky nearly drops him.

“You gotta work on that accent, pal. They hear you talking like that and your bound to get kicked outta the country straight away.”

“You saying you don’t like a fella with an accent?”

“A _Brooklyn_ accent maybe.”

Bucky grins. “Are you done yapping? Thought you might wanna have your way with me now.”

Steve leans forward with all his weight, pushing off the wall. Bucky stumbles a little, but recovers quickly, and he gets the message, laughing as he carries Steve all the way to the bedroom.

* * *

As it turns out, five days is not an eternity, and all that time gets swallowed up by all the things Bucky insists they do and people he’s just gotta see. They let Rachel feed them lunch and Winnie feed them dinner. They watch Peter’s band play at one of Bucky’s favorite jazz clubs and stay out too late drinking with him after. Raul even shows up, and they all drunkenly rant about desegregation and the army. They take Beck to the movies and the twins to Coney Island.

On the last night before Bucky leaves for the war he’s got some meeting with his unit in the afternoon, and Steve takes the opportunity to 4F _again_. He’s so frustrated he goes looking from trouble in some alley and promptly gets beat up. Bucky comes to his rescue, just like old times.

Bucky starts going on about the Stark Expo and a double date, meeting up with the girls. Steve just nods along. He lets Bucky lead him to the train out to Flushing, completely miserable that Bucky will be gone in the morning and that Steve has once again failed to find a way to follow him, to follow all the other men fit to serve.

"Wait," Steve pauses at the stairs leading to the subway platform, frowning over his shoulder at Bucky. " _Girls_? We're meeting girls? As in more than one?"

"Yeah," Bucky replies. When he tugs on Steve's jacket sleeve, Steve follows because people are starting to glare and grumble with them blocking the flow of traffic.

"We don't know a whole lot of girls, Bucky," Steve says as they wait for the train.

"Speak for yourself. I dated my way through the entire single female population at Assumption."

Steve rolls his eyes. "More like failed to date."

Bucky laughs and then abruptly stops, grimacing down at his shoes. "Fuck," he whispers. "I'm gonna miss you."

Much to his horror, Steve's about a breath from crying right there on the platform, but then the train comes screeching in. He allows himself to be distracted by the squeaking breaks and rumbling metal, the hum of voices as the doors open and the people getting out, the push of the crowd getting on after them.

The doors close behind them, and Steve gets jostled closer to Bucky as all the people shift around and find a spot for the ride.

"Bucky," he says, his hand going tight on the handle as the train jostles him. "Who's the other girl?"

"What?" Bucky's looking at everything but Steve. In a minute, he'll probably causally start whistling, just to further prove his own nonchalance and Steve watches him with narrowed eyes.

"Well, you said we're going to meet some girls. One's got to be Rachel. Who's Rachel's date?"

"Me."

Steve blinks. The train is crowded and not quiet and Bucky's speaking pretty far from his good ear. Maybe Steve misheard.

"You."

"Yes, me." Bucky leans down, talking close. No way he'll mishear anything now. "Rachel's date. In the flesh. You're looking at him."

Steve blinks some more, opens his mouth a couple times to reply, doesn't know what to say, and then goes on blinking. It takes him a solid thirty seconds to figure out what's going on here for himself.

"Who's the girl, Buck?"

"Her name's Bonnie."

"Bonnie."

"Rachel’s her tailor. They're friendly. She's a secretary for an officer stationed at the Navy Yard and she likes social realism."

Steve snorts. "She likes social realism?"

"Well, she knew what it was when Rachel brought it up at least."

"What in the hell is Rachel doing talking about social realism with her clients, huh? What, are you two conspiring? Is she quizzing girls to see if they'd be a good fit for me? How the hell did you talk her into this?"

Before they locked up Sully, Rachel would've been spitting mad if Bucky shared his plans to pawn Steve off on some unsuspecting dame before he shipped off to war, but now the two of them are conspiring to get Steve dates.

Its infuriating, and Steve reminds himself that Rachel's been through a lot, had her foundational beliefs shaken right down to dust when they closed up the bar and took away Sully. He understands why she's suddenly so willing to take part in Bucky’s schemes to have Steve dating ladies.

But he's still pretty mad about it.

"Just try and get to know her a little," Bucky says.

"I don't want to get to know her a little!"

"Please? Will you try? For me?"

Bucky should absolutely not be looking at him like that on a packed public train. And he absolutely should not be using his ridiculously appealing face to get Steve to agree to get to know some dame.

"Why?" Steve demands. “What’s the point?”

Bucky grimaces and looks down at his shoes. "I don't want you to be alone. If something happens to me, and I don't make it home. I just can't stand it, the thought of you alone."

Swallowing back all his own fear, he pushes into Bucky's space, letting the motion of the train knock their bodies together. He gets a hand on Bucky's jaw, forces him to look up a little. Bucky's all wide eyed. Sometimes, he looks so painfully young, especially when his lip trembles like that.

Steve wants to be home, where he could climb into Bucky's lap and kiss away some of his terror. This subway car will just have to do, all the people crowded together like sardines and determinedly minding their own business feels like something close to privacy.

"You're gonna be _fine_ , Bucky." Steve is all steel and conviction. This he believes with every ounce of himself, because he has to. Because Bucky doesn't. "You're smart and brave and a crack shot. You're gonna come home."

"But—“

"No, you will. One way or another. And in the mean time, I'm gonna be fine, too." Now is not a good time to mention that he still has no plans to be left behind, that he’ll be trying to enlist under a new fake name the second he’s got an opportunity. "I won't be alone. I've got Rachel. I've got Beck and your family. I've got the Boyds and Peter."

"Peter's gonna be drafted any minute," Bucky mutters, but his eyes ain't so wide anymore. There's no tremble in his lip.

"Buck, you gotta stop worrying about me and start worrying about you, alright? Didn't I promise to look after myself? Are you gonna make me say all that again?"

Bucky smiles a little and Steve drops his hands, shuffles backwards.

"No." Bucky sighs. "I just want someone around who loves you."

"If you accuse Rachel of not loving me, she'll sock you right in the jaw."

Bucky laughs, but does nothing to call off this whole absurd night.

They find the girls outside the expo. Rachel winces when she sees him, shrugging a little, before making the introductions. Bonnie's disappointment in him is obvious the moment she gets a good look at him, her whole face falling and her posture going from straight to slumped.

“We’ve actually met,” Steve says when they’re introduced.

“Oh?” She blinks at him.

“Yeah, at Rachel’s shop. I was coming in just as you were headed out.”

“Oh, yes, I remember now,” she says, but Steve doesn’t believe her, and then she spends the majority of the night flirting with Bucky. Bucky and Rachel spend the majority of the night talking up Steve. Steve spends the majority of the night embarrassed and uncomfortable. And Stark's flying car doesn't even _fly_.

Bucky wants to go dancing and he should because this is his last night stateside and he should do _everything_ he loves, which always includes dancing. Steve spots an enlistment center he hasn't tried yet, the one upside to coming all the way out to Queens to see a car that doesn’t even fly, and Bucky catches him staring at it.

"Just don't get arrested, okay?" Bucky sighs, resigned.

If Steve times this right, he'll get home when Bucky does, assuming he sticks to his usual three drinks and hour and a half of dancing.

Of course, Steve does not really expect Dr. Erskine and a real chance at following Bucky to war. That puts him behind schedule a bit.

* * *

"Well?" Bucky's sitting on the edge of their cobbled together bed, two singles pushed back in the center of their room since Bucky got back from basic. He's unlacing his boots, but he's got the rest of his uniform on, even the hat.

 _Good_. Steve wants to peel the whole thing off of him piece by piece.

"Oh, you know," says Steve, shrugging. It's almost a lie, but he won't send Bucky oversees upset. He'll tell Bucky later, on the off chance Steve makes it and gets through the whole program. There’s really no reason to tell Bucky about Dr. Erskine until he absolutely needs to know.

"You're getting a whole lot better at getting rejected, I gotta say."

Steve scowls. "Gee, thanks, Buck."

"But you've got a lot of practice at this point."

"Aw, come on."

"You think you’re finally done defrauding the federal government trying to get your ass in the army?"

"I'm making no promises."

Bucky makes a big show of sighing and rolling his eyes as he drops his boots on the ground. He's smiling a little though, fond and indulgent.

"You wanna come give me some of that sweet, sweet sugar?" Bucky waggles his eyebrows, looking Steve over from head to toe. His tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth and he licks his bottom lip.

Despite his blush, Steve crosses his arms over his chest and glares. "You sure you wouldn't want me giving some sugar to Bertha?"

"Bonnie. Nine hours until I ship out and you really want to waste time arguing about this?"

"Well, tonight we had thirteen hours and you wasted it dragging Bonnie along! How did you even rope Rachel into going along with that one, huh?"

"Steve," Bucky says, running his hands through his hair. "I just want you to remember that you've got options, alright?"

"I don't want options."

"Well, you got them, okay? And if I don't end up coming back I want you—“

Steve won't let him finish. He knows what Bucky's gonna say anyhow, about how Steve might have a real shot at the wife and the kids and the whole deal. This is a fight they’ve been having for months and he refuses to go through it again.

Instead Steve launches himself at Bucky, tackling back onto their bed. He kisses him hard, hissing, "Shut the hell up," against Bucky's mouth. “And fuck me.”

Bucky does just what he’s told.

* * *

With six hours until Bucky ships out and ten before Steve expected to get on a train to Camp Lehigh, they finally fall asleep.

With three hours until Bucky ships out and seven before Steve expected to get on a train to Camp Lehigh, Steve wakes up with Bucky’s nose just a couple inches from his. Despite his exhaustion, bone deep and aching, but he doesn’t close his eyes. He just watches Bucky sleep for awhile, until the morning is light enough for him to get out his sketchbook.

Sitting with his legs crossed and Bucky’s too big shirt draped over his shoulders, Steve draws. He captures Bucky’s face in sleep, his eyelashes long and soft, mouth opened a crack, hair messy over his forehead. When that’s done, he turns the page and starts another sketch. The light’s a little different, now.

Their time ticks down and the sun gets higher, Steve drawing getting progressively more frantic, his lines darker, less precise, _scribbled_. By the time Bucky’s blinking open his eyes and groaning – twenty minutes before Steve was planning on waking him – Steve’s drawings are down right abstract.

Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s knee, and Steve bends down to kiss him, closing the sketchbook and hiding it under the pillow.

They stay in bed until the last possible moment, and then Bucky rolls away, groaning as he gets to his feet. Steve relinquishes his shirt and then pulls his knees to his chest, watching Bucky move around the room as he gets dressed.

When he’s once more all put together, so handsome and every bit the solider, Bucky stands by the bed and just sorta shrugs. “Well,” he says.

Steve stands on his knees, shuffling closer and wrapping his arms tight around Bucky. “I love you a lot,” he says, right into Bucky’s neck.

“I love _you_ a lot.”

There’s not much left to say, beyond that.

* * *

Steve dresses in his Sunday best and then locks the apartment door tight behind him. If all goes to plan, he won’t be coming back here for a long while. He thought about going to fill Rachel in first, to tell her to live here until he’s back, but if he actually does end up in the army by some miracle, then a letter will do fine. She’s already got a key.

Dr. Erskine is waiting for him on the platform like they discussed the night before, the train to take them up to New Jersey behind him. He waves as Steve approaches and hands over a ticket.

“Are you ready for this, Mr. Rogers?” he asks, smiling a little.

Steve takes a deep breath and fights off a cough. “I’m ready.”


	13. Chapter 13

Somewhere on the end of the bed, buried under old manila folders and encrypted documents and photographs of Bucky that make him sick to his stomach, his phone is vibrating. Steve folds up the map he was pretending to study to dig around for it.

(Really he was just staring at the ceiling, imagining up increasingly worse scenarios for where Bucky might be right this moment, and not sleeping.)

In the months since DC – when all his worst nightmares came true, when he found Bucky again and lost him just as quickly – Steve has not done much sleeping without the assistance of all the drugs they pumped into him in the hospital.

This ceiling, like the majority of the cheap motel ceilings he’s become acquainted with recently, is cracked and water stained.

Really, he should try harder to sleep. Bucky needs him at his best, needs him to be well rested. But in a cemetery, over an empty grave, Steve was handed a file detailing all they did to his precious, beautiful best friend – complete with photographs – and Steve can’t sleep.

They’ve only been on the road for three weeks, moving constantly since a quick stop in Brooklyn where he had to confess to Rachel that he failed.

_Nazis_ , it’s been Nazis the whole time.

He had to tell Rachel that its been Nazis the whole time, and he did not deserve the comfort she offered, her soothing words that dismissed all his apologizes as folly and her fingers in his hair, but he let her coddle him anyway. He ate her matzo ball soup and did not tell her about Bucky.

Steve could not find the words, and if he can’t manage to bring Bucky home, then Rachel’s better off believing that he died a century ago, when Steve let him fall from a train. He’s failed Rachel spectacularly – _Nazis_ , all this time it’s been _Nazis_ – but he can spare her the horror of knowing what Steve now knows. Steve failed Bucky worse, somehow, but Rachel doesn’t need to know yet.

When Rachel closes her eyes, she won’t see Bucky blue and frozen, Bucky beaten and bruised and missing an arm.

They’ve knocked over a handful of Hydra lairs, but there’s been no trace of Bucky. Not his profile caught on a grainy convenience store security camera. Not a bloody trail of dead Hydra agents to follow. _Nothing_.

Steve can’t sleep, can’t _breathe_. He can barely think of anything besides Bucky, and what he’s been through in the last seventy years, after Steve let him fall and then didn’t look for him and then put the plane down, only to be useless and frozen under the ice while Bucky was up here, withstanding more torment.

Thank God for Sam. He insists on three meals a day and taking sleep breaks. He says, “ _Man, that is_ fucked _up_ ,” whenever they uncover some new Nazi horror and he doesn’t leave Steve alone to wallow.

The buried phone continues to ring. It’s a new one, since Nazis were probably spying on his old one, and only three people have the number, one of whom is snoring face down in a pillow in the bed next to Steve’s.

That leaves Natasha and Rachel for possible callers.

He shuffles around the papers, trying to not disturb Sam’s chaotic organizational system, and he finds the phone after four rings.

"Rachel?" Steve glances at the digital clock on the bedside table, blinking 10:02 at him. It’s earlier than he expected. Sam’s getting serious about reasonable bedtimes after single-handedly taking out Hydra factories. "You all right? What's going on?"

"Where are you right now?" Rachel asks. Her words are careful. She speaks slowly, deliberately, as if she’s trying to figure out how to say whatever she has to say.

"You know I can't tell you that," Steve says. On the edge of the bed sits a procedural manual for maintaining the Winter Solider, the one they found in a Hydra safe house outside DC, and Steve’s flips it over so he won’t have to read the title one more goddamn time. “We talked about this, remember? I can’t give you the details on this mission.”

Rachel had to watch him fighting Hydra on the news, just like she had to watch him fighting the aliens, but this was much worse because it’s _Nazis_. This whole time, it’s been _Nazis_.  He needs to be more patient when she struggles to remember the details of their latest conversations.

"I don't need to now where you are _specifically_ ," Rachel snaps back. "Just… how far are you from Brooklyn?"

Steve lets out a hoarse laugh, glancing out the window to where he can clearly see bright stars shinning over some tiny town in Maine that was unfortunately close to a now destroyed underground Hydra lab.

One bed over, Sam stirs and opens one eye.

"Pretty far from Brooklyn," Steve murmurs.

"Okay." Rachel takes a deep breath. "When I tell you this, you need to promise to stay out of Brooklyn."

"What?” he demands, his heart rate picking up. His sits up quickly, dislodging a stack of files as he stands, suddenly so painfully hopeful and absolutely terrified. “No. Rachel, why?"

"Steve,” Rachel murmurs, gentle and quiet. She takes a deep breath and Steve knows what she’s going to say, even before she says it. “He's here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a good time to casually mention that there will be a part II? And that I've already got 20k written? And that I've been working on some Bucky POV?
> 
> I don't know how my original 10k pre-war idea turned into this monster series, but here we are. Wow, Big Bangs are awesome.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. Y'all are the absolute best.
> 
> Do you know who else is the best? [Di](http://queerladydi.tumblr.com/), who has masterfully fixed my mistakes and put up with my ranting.
> 
> Feel free to come yell at me on [Tumblr.](http://jaxington.tumblr.com/) It is much deserved after an ending like that.


End file.
